


Taboo

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coming of Age, Cousin Incest, Family Drama, Intersex, Oaths & Vows, Other, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-11-07 23:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: In an attempt to get his sons to be more like family, Finwë decides that Turgon should spend time in Finarfin's household, while Fingon should spend time with the Fëanorians.  This story follows Fingon through his unexpected life-changing adventure.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for B2MEM 2019 - prompts vary.
> 
> Thank you to AnnEllspethRaven for beta reading and listening to my head canons.

There had been a tense air lingering throughout dinner, and now that Fingon was seated beside his brother in the foyer with their father sitting across from them, he knew why. “I spoke with your grandfather today, and we have agreed that it is time for each of you to spend a span of time in another household, as attendants. There is much to be learned from this service, and I expect you will represent yourselves and our house noblely.”

“Are we to serve in the same household?” asked Turgon with worry in his voice and etched upon his brow.

“No,” replied Fingolfin. “It has been arranged for you to spend your time in the household of your uncle, Arafinwë.” Fingolfin looked at Fingon and said, “The honor of serving the House of Fëanáro has been given unto you.”

“Then honored I shall be,” said Fingon despite feeling anything but honored. “When will our uncles expect us?”

“In three days time,” Fingolfin said. Turgon’s eyes widened, but Fingon’s expression changed little. “It shall be for a duration of seven years, after which, both Findaráto and Tyelkormo will return here with you, and they will serve us here, to better learn their duties in this hierarchy.”

“I suppose we should start packing,” Turgon said.

Fingolfin nodded. “You should certainly gather what you will need, but part of this experience is that you will be taken into the household as a member of the family. You will be cared for throughout the duration.” This comment made Turgon relax, but Fingon held his stoic pose. “Turukáno, you are dismissed. I have need to speak alone to your brother.”

Turgon nodded, left the room, and even closed the door behind him. Once Fingolfin was alone with Fingon, he moved to sit where Turgon had been. “I tried to convince my father to have you both at your Uncle Arafinwë’s house, but your grandfather has insisted that it be with your Uncle Fëanáro. My hands are tied. You understand?”

“I will do as you wish,” Fingon answered dutifully. “Better me than Turukáno,” he added. “He is the smart one; I am the strong one. If anyone can endure seven years under Uncle Fëanáro’s roof, I am the best candidate.”

“That is another thing,” Fingolfin cautioned. “This is all a very formal procedure. You should not refer to him as Uncle--not unless he insists you do so. The correct form of address is ‘Your Royal Highness’, for he is the first-born prince and heir apparent.”

“I will remember that. I promise; I will not disappoint you,” said Fingon.

Fingolfin hugged his son and kissed his brow. “I know you will not.”

While Turgon set off with an entourage that included parents and sister, Fingon rode alone to his destination. All that Fingon brought with him was on his back or in the saddlebags; he had been surprised to see that two entire ponies were needed for everything Turgon packed. During the first few hours of the journey, Fingon brooded that he had been cast to the wolves, abandoned by his family. As he came closer to his goal, he managed to convince himself that it was because he was trusted and mature that he had been allowed to travel by himself.

Per the map he had been given, he expected to see some sort of large house, such as the one he lived in or that his grandfather owned. Instead, he found he was approaching a guarded gate. He slowed as he came closer, but one of the guardians beckoned him to pass within. No words were spoken, yet Fingon felt his presence was expected, for as soon as his horse was beyond the barrier, he heard a commotion behind him and turned and see the gate being shut and reinforced. 

“Precisely on time.”

Fingon turned back to see his uncle standing before him. Swiftly, Fingon dismounted and bowed deeply, braids pooling on the ground as he lowered his head nearly to the top of his uncle’s boots. “It is an honor to be here, Your Royal Highness. I am fortunate to have such an opportunity and grateful for your generosity in accepting me for these seven years. I shall serve you and your family to the best of my abilities.”

“Did you practice that?”

Fingon looked up. “No, sir. No, Your Highness,” he corrected quickly. 

Fëanor walked entirely around Fingon once, and then snapped his fingers. A stable hand seemed to appear from thin air, and in short order was leading the horse away. “Stand up,” he said firmly, and Fingon did so. “Have you ever taken a blood oath?”

“No, Your Highness.”

After taking a step closer, Fëanor produced a small, ornate knife he had kept wrapped in a cloth. “I understand it is politically correct to use my title, but you will be living under my roof. Uncle will suffice. Hold out your hand.”

Without hesitation, much as he wanted to get back on his horse and leave, Fingon presented his left hand with the palm up. There was no warning as Fëanor slashed across the sensitive skin, and Fingon felt the sting of the wound. He watched the blood well up along the thin line while Fëanor cut his own hand, then grasped Fingon’s wounded hand with his own. “Henceforth, you will be treated as one of my own blood. Though a child of my brother, you shall be a son of mine, as are those of my flesh. This I swear.” Fëanor squeezed his hand, as if ensuring the fluid was being mingled between them. “Now you.”

Overwhelmed was an understatement. Fingon swallowed hard and attempted to come up with something suitable. “If by my power, acts, or words I am able to offer aid to you or your sons, now my own brothers, this I will do. I pledge never to cause harm to any of you, and to fulfill this oath to the best of my abilities.”

“Not bad for the first time.” Fëanor let go, but a moment later looked at Fingon’s blood-smeared hand. “Looks like the first stop on our tour is the healer,” Fëanor said as he hastily wrapped his sash around Fingon’s hand, which was now pouring blood onto the ground. “Keep your hand above your head,” he directed once the makeshift tourniquet was applied. 

As Fingon followed, his thoughts swirled, from thankfulness that Turgon was not to endure this, to what his father would think to know he had started his first day taking what amounted to a blood oath of fealty to his uncle. It would certainly be lively for the next seven years.


	2. (Ch 1) Dreams Might Be Filled With Lies

The merciless clatter of a hammer beating a brass cowbell of immense size shocked Fingon out of his slumber.  Following an extensive tour of the grounds in which he was introduced to anyone and everyone that his uncle encountered, Fingon was able to do little more than eat a cup of soup someone handed to him as he entered back into the main house, allow another person to check his hand, and then be shown up several flights of stairs to a room that seemed to be the attic.  There was little light, but the warm bed that greeted him was friend enough, and he fell into a deep sleep.

That night, it was all nightmares and darkness, oaths and blood, and terrible situations and crimes.  He woke up several times, either too hot or too cold. It was only now, feeling as if he was finally able to rest with the sun up, that his reverie was interrupted. 

“Good morning, good morning, good morning!” The chipper voice that greeted him belonged to an impeccably dressed man in hunting garb.  He was wearing yellow-gold leather attire, and his hair, the same color as his clothing, was braided back into a single plait, tied off with matching ribbon.  His grey eyes sparkled with a desire for adventure, and by all accounts, appeared far more refreshed than Fingon felt. He had a bow and quiver over his back and another set was resting by the door that Fingon had not recalled being there previously.  “I am Tyelkormo, your third eldest brother!” 

“My...brother?” Even though he was still pulling himself from Irmo’s world, Fingon was pretty sure he only had a younger brother.

The man frowned.  “Father said he was going to have you take the oath when you arrived.”

“Oh...right...oaths and blood and brothers...got it.”  Fingon stretched, and found he was a little sore from all the walking the previous day.  His hand began to throb, perhaps that had been part of the problem overnight, and he unwrapped it to look.  “It is very good to meet you, brother Tyelkormo. I take it we have plans for the day?”

“Just the morning with me.  Carnistir has you for lunch!” 

“Is he as tall as you are?” asked Fingon as he flung back the blankets.

Celegorm laughed loudly.  “Tall...me, tall. I shall enjoy your sense of humor, brother!” 

As it turned out, people were allowed out past the gates and walls for two reasons--travel, and hunting. Fingon’s horse was already awaiting him when he and Celegorm left the house, only now, the barding was copper, red, and black, not the blue and gold he had rode in on.  Already, he knew his uncle was psychologically conditioning him, though he humbly praised the work of the horsemaster as he mounted and rode out of the gate with Celegorm.

On the way to their destination, they ate thin sliced bread spread with honey and rolled up to keep their fingers from getting sticky.  All morning they hunted plump pheasant and rabbits, accompanied by a hound of incomparable size, and as the mingling of the light alerted them that noontime was near, they came back to the stables.  There, stable hands were ready to receive their tired mounts, and Fingon was ushered off to wash and dress for lunch.

When he entered the room he was brought to, the doors were closed behind him.  The room appeared large enough to host a hundred or more for a ball, but all that was to be found was a long table set with two places at one side and one at the other.  Fingon made the assumption that he was to sit at the side with the single plate and place setting, but only moved to stand at the chair and wait.

He looked around at the decor of this room.  There were many tall windows, but these were draped with heavy forest green fabric to block most of the light.  The floor was green and black marble, and the table was white. Great chandeliers that appeared to have emeralds dangling from them were plentifully placed overhead, with one huge chandelier at the center of the room.  Remarkably, none of them had candles, for there was another clear gem mingled with the emeralds, and these gave off light which danced between the multifaceted jewels overhead.

The sound of a door opening alerted Fingon, and he stood a little straighter.  Into the room came a string of servants, one after the other, the first with a pitcher of water, another with a soup cart, a third carrying a tray of steaming buns and a plate of butter, and so on.  Following all of the smartly dressed servants, a handsomely dressed couple entered. Both were dressed in flowing greens, and Fingon also noted, they were both taller than Celegorm was. While the gentleman opted for dark greens that were almost black, the lady on his arm wore mint and pale green, accented with opal buttons and jewelry.  The pair came to stand before Fingon. He bowed to them, and they bowed back, and then, the man turned to look at the table. His cheeks took on a hint of a rose glow, and he barked at the servants, “Why are these settings so far placed? You, there,” he pointed to the servant at the cart of soup, “move them all three together, so I might converse with my brother.”  

Fingon watched as three of the servants rushed forward and rearranged the chairs and moved plates as quickly as they were able.  Nearly as soon as the order had been given, it was completed, and the servants stepped back into their line. When it seemed safe to speak, Fingon said, “You must be Carnistir.”

“I thought that was obvious,” was the reply.  “My wife, Avalassë.”

Of all of the sons of his Uncle Fëanor, Fingon had been told that Caranthir was the closest to him in age.  While Caranthir was a few years his elder, the thought of a wife had yet to cross Fingon’s mind, and here he could see from their mannerisms that they were quite close.  Fingon bowed again to Avalassë, who held out a dainty gloved hand with her palm facing down. Fingon’s fingers twitched as he perceived he was being watched by everyone in the room.  He reached out, timidly took hold of her hand, and gave it a little shake. 

His gaze darted around as he heard a shuffle of noise.  The servants in the line hid smirks and snickers, while Avalassë herself pursed her lips.  Only Caranthir's reaction was different, and he raised a brow, then slid beside Fingon. 

“When a lady offers her hand,” whispered Caranthir as he demonstrated, “a gentleman takes it thusly, and bestows upon it a kiss of goodwill.”  This Caranthir did, and then, after releasing his wife’s hand, looked at Fingon. “Go ahead.”

Cheeks now colored redder than the tomato soup he had seen on the cart, Fingon repeated Caranthir's actions meekly.  “Better?” he asked.

Caranthir smiled warmly and patted Fingon’s shoulder.  “There will be many new experiences for you here. You are not familiar with Noldorin traditions and etiquette.”

Fingon swallowed hard and shook his head.  “My father is very fond of Vanyarin culture.”

“I look forward to comparing those differences with you.  Come; let us eat,” declared Caranthir as he and his wife made their way to the table.  Fingon followed, and held back to see who would sit where. Avalassë took the head seat, while Caranthir sat beside her and motioned to the chair across from him for Fingon.  “Normally, I would of course sit there, but I want us to have a chance to converse freely.” Caranthir reached out for his wife’s hand, and after removing her glove, kissed the back of it with more passion than he had shown earlier.  “Besides, Avalassë enjoys the view, I am certain.”

“I was told from the meetings that were held that you were a fine specimen, but reports were certainly conservative,” Avalassë said.

Fingon blinked.  While mannerisms here appeared to be governed by protocol, speech seemed freer than what he was used to at home.  He realized he was expected to speak next, and without food on the table to comment upon, he picked up on the most recent line for the conversation.  “Meetings were held about me?”

“Of course.  Our fathers had to agree upon terms, duration, expectations, and then we had to be brought in on the discussion--my brothers and I, that is.  Then we had to take a vote of the household, and finally, hold open forums with the members of the estate,” explained Caranthir.

“What for?” The words came out before Fingon could stop himself.

“Anyone entering the community has to be thoroughly examined.  We had to be sure it would be mutually beneficial, and that you would fit in here.  Curufinwë wanted to interview you, but Tyelkormo convinced him we could do that after you arrived.”

Fingon wrung his hands under the table.  “Is that what we are doing now?” he guessed.

Caranthir smiled and kissed from the back of his wife’s hand to her wrist, then relinquished his hold as food began to be distributed.  “I thought it only fair you know. You made a good impression on Tyelkormo this morning. He said you are an excellent horseman and a very good archer.”

Fingon smiled at the compliments, but his happiness was temporary.  “What happens if I fail these interviews?”

“We feed you to Tyelkormo’s dog,” said Caranthir, to which Avalassë picked up her discarded gloves and hit him across the chest with them.  He laughed and snatched the gloves away. “You will do fine,” he said as he set the gloves back down. “Tyelkormo likes you, and you have passed my inspection.”

“Two out of seven, then.  Almost halfway,” Fingon said.  “May I ask what I did correctly, and what I should improve upon?”

Caranthir and his wife exchanged a look, and Avalassë responded with, “Just be yourself.”

Fingon nodded.  

The words from Caranthir were more specific.  “No one expects you to answer everything perfectly.  For me, when we met, you were unaware of common behaviors.  I explained; you listened, and you show the ability and desire to learn.  Do not be embarrassed over what you do not know. Take this as an opportunity to immerse yourself in a culture you are unfamiliar with--a culture that is, in part, your own.  You say you have been exposed primarily to Vanyarin traditions. You pray daily?”

Fingon nodded.

“Attend holy festivals and partake in fasting?”

Again, Fingon nodded.

“You live in a system devoid of hierarchy.  Everyone is equal, from the chambermaid to the magistrate.”

Once more, Fingon nodded.

“You will find none of that here.  We operate under a different system, and our faith is more philosophical.  Avalassë and I are versed in court etiquette; we shall make it our priority to assist you in learning these skills--just as Tyelkormo has taken upon himself the task of seeing to it that you are a capable hunter and fighter, though, it would seem his task is an easy one.”

“What of the rest of you?  There are five other lessons I am to have?” Fingon assumed.

“Four, really, but we can speak more of that later,” Caranthir said as the food for the first course was now before them.  “If you are more comfortable praying before the meal, you may do so,” he said as he picked up the knife for the butter, “but know that you will be in the minority at feasts when they occur.”

Fingon nodded and bowed his head, hands folded before him.  He closed his eyes to shield himself partially from the sight of Caranthir and Avalassë beginning their meal, though he could still hear the scraping of butter across bread and water being sipped.  Not only did Fingon speak a prayer over the meal, but he took a little time to pray for his brother, and his family, and this new family, and finally, for the strength to endure for the seven years before him.  When he opened his eyes, he realized the noises had stopped, and he saw both Caranthir and Avalassë looking at him with amusement. 

“The soup is not that good,” joked Caranthir.

Fingon smiled back and raised his glass to Caranthir, who lifted his own and tapped it against Fingon’s.  Avalassë did likewise and declared, “To undoubtedly awkward introductions and subpar tomato soup.”

“Hear, hear!” agreed Caranthir.


	3. Why Would a Star Be Afraid of the Dark? (Ch 2)

Following lunch, Fingon was made quite aware of how he was being introduced to the brothers, for next he was presented to Amrod and Amras, who were taller still than Caranthir, but not by much.  “Just wait until you see--”

“Shh, shh!  Do not ruin it for him!”

“Oh, right!  Surprise! Got it!”

The youngest of the clan, they had not yet reached their majority, but were close enough to know the ways of the world (or, at the very least, dozens of jokes in bad taste that they delighted in having a new audience with which to share).  

The trio were sitting in an alcove enjoying the pure light coming in despite a light afternoon rain.  The elder of the twins was dressed in deep blue-violet and indigo tones, while the youngest wore shades of purple.  Their outfits were identical except for the coloration, and they were themselves indistinguishable, save for the slightest difference in the shade of their hair.  

“So, let me get this straight,” said Fingon after he toured all of the crafting halls with them, and found that they were to show him how to work with wood and metals and other raw materials to find his niche in Noldorin crafting society.  “I should call you both Ambarussa, but only if your father is not around, and when he is around, then you,” he said as he pointed to the sixth son, “are still Ambarussa, but you,” he shifted to the youngest, “I should call Umbarto.”

“Absolutely!”

“You have it precisely!”

It was as they had been speaking that a fellow with a book in his hands, distractedly walking down the hallway, had come to pass by, and suddenly stopped, turned on his heel, and gasped.  “Why would you do that to him? Beasts, the both of you!”

Fingon, looking up, regarded that once again, a man of significant height stood before him, and he looked left, right, and center again to see a resemblance between the twins on either side of him and the man in orange standing in front of him.  While the twins were dressed ready to work at a forge or workbench at a moment’s notice, the many layers of robes, sashes, and scarves would prevent the newcomer from joining them. He had a poofy hat on his head, with several feathers sticking from it, and had a flute and a small drum attached by his belt on one side.  His other side had a satchel, bulging with a definite assortment of miscellany, and Fingon instantly knew from his conversation at lunch which of the brothers he had encountered. “Pleased to meet you, Makalaurë,” he said, though this was lost in the din.

“Makala, go away, this not your turn!” an Ambarussa angrily flung at him.

“Are you trying to get him in trouble so soon?  Shoo! Be gone, and be happy I do not report your actions to father!”

“Try and make us--one of you, and two of...us.”  The other Ambarussa cowered down a little and whispered, “Good afternoon, Curufinwë.”

Here, in Fingon’s mind, was a deviation to all he had seen, for standing now behind Maglor was an imposing figure.  It might have been Fëanor, for all Fingon knew, for this man looked oh so similar, and wore all black. Following the pattern, he had expected Curufin to wear blue.  This son, so much like Fëanor himself, was taller than the twins, but shorter than lithe Maglor. 

“Do not good afternoon me, Pitya.  What is going on out here? If Makala heard you in his conservatory--”

“He was walking by,” the other Ambarussa slipped into the discussion.  “We were not that loud!”

“--and *I* heard you in my office, then you were too damned loud, and do not raise your voice to me!  You will listen to Makala, and it should not take me to insist upon that.” Now Curufin placed a hand on Maglor’s arm and coaxed him to speak in a gentler voice.  “What harm have they done?”

“They suggested our new brother use the name ‘Umbarto’ to refer to Pitya.”

A fire lit Curufin’s eyes.  “You are both lucky I have not a horsewhip with me, or I would more than take you both to task!  Get thee gone, both of you!” Curufin raised and arm up, and the Ambarussa leaped up from the bench and backed away.  As he lowered his arm, Curufin said, “This is not how we treat guests, and moreso, *not* how we treat family!”

Cowering slightly, the identical brothers now bowed to Fingon.  “We are sorry for our mischief,” the youngest said.

“Very sorry,” added his brother.

Curufin dismissively waved his hand.  “Go,” he commanded, and the twins grudgingly left the area.  

It was now that Fingon found he was trembling slightly, and with Maglor and Curufin looming over him, he waited for further direction.

“Makala, you might have to take him to your conservatory before he pisses himself,” grumbled Curufin.

Maglor lowered himself into a stoop so that he could look Fingon in the eyes.  “Are you alright?”

Embarrassed, Fingon nodded.  “I am not sure what just happened,” he said.  “I did something wrong again?”

Curufin sighed.  “Umbarto is the name our mother gave Pitya, but father rejected that name, so you must never, ever use it in his presence.  For that matter, it would be wise to refrain from mentioning Nerdanel or Indis when he is within earshot. If you have not already figured it out, our mother is not currently living here.  It would be a dreadful idea to remind our father of that fact, and therefore, no one dares speak his wife’s name at present.”

“Then I will not,” Fingon said solemnly.

“You better not,” Curufin said sternly.  Maglor rolled his eyes.

Fingon looked in the direction that the twins had gone.  “What should I call...should I say ‘Pitya’?”

“No, no, he is Ambarto,” Maglor said softly.  He was petting Fingon’s arm in a soothing manner, and little movements made by Maglor caused some unseen bells somewhere on his person to jingle.  “Do you like music?”

“We should tell father about this,” Curufin said.  “What else did they tell you to say?” he demanded of Fingon.

“Give him a moment--he is traumatized,” said Maglor.  He patted Fingon’s hand when he still said nothing. “Do you sing?  Play an instrument?”

“Did those beasts tell you to say ‘Serindë’ instead of ‘Þerindë’, too?” Curufin demanded.  “How long were they grooming you for this?”

Slowly, Fingon wrapped his arms around himself.  Even though neither Curufin nor Maglor were speaking loudly at him, he still felt overwhelmed, and now somewhat betrayed by the youngest of the brothers.  Homesickness started to overcome him, and he could not help but think of his own brother, and how Turgon was not likely being subjected to this misery where he was.  A single tear escaped, and he bowed his head in shame. Maglor joined him on the bench and rubbed the back of Fingon’s neck. “Hey, now. Everything is going to be fine.  This is hard, right? You only arrived yesterday, and I bet you miss your mother and father.” Maglor’s words, meant to show empathy, only made Fingon cry outright.

“Great.”  Curufin turned and began to walk down the hallway.  “Just leave him there, Makala. He is not going to last a week here with the way those two are going to torment him.”

Maglor waited until Curufin rounded a corner and then focused on Fingon.  “Would you like some tea? I have some in my conservatory. It is very peaceful there.  I could play for you if you like.”

Of everyone he had met so far, Maglor’s voice soothed him the most, and he finally relented and gave a nod.  “I am sorry,” he said, almost choking on the words.

“No, no, none of that,” said Maglor.  “Come with me,” he said as he coaxed Fingon to his feet and showed him down the other end of the hall.  They entered into a passage with a staircase that went winding downward and opened into a windowless room far cozier than any place he had yet to see.

There were some chairs, but none of them matched, and there were heaps of pillows strewn in a sunken in part of the room where a petite woman sat instructing two children who were playing flutes.  She, like Maglor, was barefooted, and Fingon doubled back to the doorway to remove his own shoes when he saw there was a bin of them where they had entered.

The warmth came from the glowing fire, and the scent of citrus, and the smell of the tea.  A cup was handed to him, and he thanked Maglor for it, and allowed himself to be shown to a pile of cushions on the floor.  There was a burst of color in the alcove they were in, and it came from a parrot who was preening on a perch overhead.

“As we have established, I am Makala, and this is my wife, Quetilien.”

From her spot, Quetilien waved to Fingon, but continued on with her pupils.

Maglor waited until Fingon had a chance to drink some tea before he queried, “Long day?” as he hung his hat on a peg near the door.

Fingon nodded.

“Well.  The worst of it is over; now you know to take caution when dealing with the little ones, and neither Russa nor I are anything to fret about, and you have met Curufinwë, whose bark is worse than his bite, so really, rest easy.  You are having dinner with him?”

Fingon nodded.  “Yes, I was told that I am expected in Curufinwë’s chambers this evening before nightfall.”

Maglor looked down over his nose at Fingon.  “Did the beasties tell you that?”

It took another moment for Fingon to take in that Maglor was referring to the twins.  “Those were their instructions, and that after I was to meet you here in your conservatory--at least, I assume that is where we are.”

“Bless-ed birds, those two,” muttered Maglor, and his wife shook her head as she clapped a beat for her students.  “I swear the dog is more obedient. You are to meet Curufinwë in his office, because no one is allowed in his private room, and if you had come here to seek me, you would have been lost, for I am scheduled to perform after supper in the Hall of Mirrors.”  Maglor placed his hands around Fingon’s, and Fingon looked up, expecting sage advice. What he got was, “Do not feel singled out. Those two little assholes try to make everyone’s life miserable when they can.”

“Makala…” Quetilien said warningly.

Maglor dropped his voice to a whisper and said, “She scolds me for swearing in front of the children, but I am only sharing with them the truths of the world.”

A noise came from the stairway above, and then the sound of someone entering the domain.  At the bottom of the stairs, Fëanor was revealed, and he looked around the room, gaze falling upon Fingon.

Before discussion could take place, both of the children abandoned their flutes and ran over to Fëanor.  Each wrapped around one of his legs and looked up adoringly.

“How are my best girls doing today?” Fëanor asked.

“I learned a new note!” announced the one on his left leg exuberantly. 

“I played a whole song without spitting!” declared the other.  

“Can we have a ride, Grandfather?” 

“A ride! A ride!”

“There is one of me and two of you!” Fëanor pointed out to them as he made his way into the room, lifting his legs slowly and carefully as he went with his precious cargo attached.  “One of you shall have to wait.”

The youngling who was slightly taller and likely older slid onto the floor and ran up to Maglor.  “Atya! Atya! Can I have a ride?”

“We can race!” shouted the other girl.

“Once only around the room, because your grandfather is busy, busy, as a bee,” said Maglor.  There was cheering, and soon both Fëanor and Maglor were on all fours. Quetilien plucked Maglor’s hat from the peg and used it at a flag to signal both ‘horses’ to begin, and father and son galloped as best they could around the room, with Maglor getting his robes and sashes caught more than once on furniture, and lagging terribly far behind.

Fingon stood beside Quetilien nursing his tea.  “Every time I think I cannot be surprised by something it happens.”

“You get used to it,” she said with a smile.

When the race was finished, and Fëanor declared the obvious winner, the girls were brought back over to finish their lesson.  Fëanor motioned for Fingon to come into the stairwell with him. “I heard you have had an eventful afternoon.”

Unsure of how much to say, Fingon merely nodded.

“Let me see your hand,” said Fëanor.  Until now, Fingon had forgotten about his wound, but seeing the matching linen wrapped around Fëanor’s hand reminded him as he held out his own bandaged hand.  Fëanor carefully unwrapped it and frowned. “I am going to send a healer as soon as we finish. It looks infected, though I do not know why.”

“Thank you,” said Fingon as the wrappings were put back in place.  “I am sorry for earlier,” he added.

“Why?”  Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall.  “Ambarussa and Ambarto are upset, and they have to learn to deal with disappointment.  It might take a week or two, but they will learn. I should provide context,” he said. “The room you have been assigned used to be the nursery.  No one has used it in some time, and since they were the last, they were storing all sort of nonsense in there. I told them to move it all into their rooms, and whatever they left there would be disposed of.  They did not believe me; their poor judgement caused them to have to dig in the rubbish heap for two days looking for things they left there. Now they blame you, wrongfully, and that is for me to deal with. They will learn; until then, lessons with them will be suspended and you will concentrate on what your five other brothers have to teach you.”

“Yes, sir.  Uncle. Yes, Uncle, sir.  Heard.” Fingon wrapped both hands around the teacup.

Fëanor looked over his nephew and lowered his arms.  With his hands in his pockets, he said, “Do not let them run you off, Findekáno.  You were very brave to come here, to a land unknown, even though you had little choice in the matter.  Carnistir and Tyelkormo have spoken well of you, and I tend to take my counsel from the most trusting of places.  Remember, though--while here, you are my son, and I, your father. If difficulties befall you, do not hesitate to come to me.”  Fëanor began to head back up the stairway, and called down behind him, “And if you have to punch one of your younger brothers for their actions, try to avoid the face.  Ambarto’s nose is still not quite healed from the last time it was broken.”


	4. Princes & Kings (Ch 3)

An odd sort of normalcy seemed to return when Fingon arrived at Curufin’s office for supper.  The office, which looked more like a suite of offices, was far grander than any he had ever seen.  The theme was shades of blue, from painted wall papers that immediately brought to mind the upscale decorators in Valmar to plush velvet sofas that were crafted with immense skill.  When one first entered, they would need to travel down stairs that spanned that entire side of the room, and from the top landing of the entryway, one could see into all of the partitioned areas.  

At the far back, there was a space that looked to double for meetings and greetings, as well as meals, and Fingon saw Curufin beckon to him from that space.  There was no straight path before him, so he looked over the maze of partitions, decided upon a course, and followed through, losing his way only twice when he hit the dead end of an office or alcove.  When he emerged into the space where Curufin was waiting for him, he saw that he was not alone.

“This is Telperinquar,” said Curufin of the little one he was carrying.  “my wife will join us later when we retire to the hall for the performance; she is helping Makala set up for tonight, and then will be dining with him and his wife.”

Now Fingon was even more conscious of the fact he was unwed, for he knew Curufin to be younger than he was.  He gave a bow to the boy that Curufin carried and said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Celebrimbor responded in awe with the words, “The chocolate man…”

Almost immediately, all color drained from Curufin’s face.  “Excuse me,” he said, eyes wide, as he carried Celebrimbor off to the side of the room.  Fingon was still able to hear the conversation as Curufin placed Celebrimbor on the ground, crouched down, and demanded, “Why would you say that?  That is rude!”

Celebrimbor sucked on his thumb and looked from his father to the newcomer and back to his father again.  “He looks like chocolate,” whispered Celebrimbor.

Curufin groaned, but before he could correct the behavior, Fingon took a step closer and said, “It...it is alright.  I am painfully aware of the fact I do not look like the rest of you. Even my siblings are fair skinned, and my father is not as dark as I am.  I was told it is a recessive trait.” As he spoke, Fingon came closer and Curufin stood up. Fingon now lowered himself down so that he could better address the child.  “Am I the first person you have seen who looks this way?”

The boy nodded.  He pulled his thumb from his mouth and said, “Why did Eru paint you brown?”

“He likes variety,” said Fingon.  “Just like your father has dark hair, and you have uncles with red hair or yellow hair, there are some of us with different colored skin.”  Fingon held out his arm. “Do you want to touch it?”

Without hesitation, Celebrimbor reached out and ran a finger back and forth on Fingon’s hand.  Then he touched his own arm in the same manner and giggled. “It feels the same!”

Fingon nodded.  “Just different colors, but still the same.”

“I like your nose,” Celebrimbor said as he reached out and pushed on Fingon’s appendage, which was wider and flatter than his own.

“I like yours, too,” Fingon answered, and he booped Celebrimbor on the tip of his nose.  The child giggled again.

“Shall we eat?” Curufin clapped his hands together, and from a place unseen, a small army of servants marched out and set up food for them on the table.  “I am so sorry,” Curufin apologized to Fingon as the governess came to arrange a higher chair for Celebrimbor to sit upon. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Fingon answered.  “Trust me; that was a far more positive conversation than some of the ones I have had over the years.  Although my father is darker skinned, he can still get by in many situations without much notice. There were times when I would be with my mother and brother, and people would assume I had to be Turukáno’s friend or a distant relation and not my mother’s son--and those were the kindest mistakes.  I rather think I can handle being called ‘chocolate man’ by a curious child.”

Fingon had the distinct feeling that how Curufin planned to interrogate him at dinner and how things actually turned out were strongly tied to Celebrimbor’s reaction when they met.  While Curufin had many probing questions, there was a hiccup of hesitation before the harshest of them, and they were all worded in the most politically correct fashion. Fingon made sure to be very polite about it, never smug, and by the end of their conversation, had gained another apology.

“Makala has suggested that I reflect upon what you are going through.  Having never been away from my home before, I suppose that I, too, would have some strong emotions about parting from my brothers and my father.  I should not have been so harsh to you earlier.”

The admission was made after dinner, while Fingon was admiring the structures that Celebrimbor built on the floor with dozens of different colored blocks made of different gemstones.  From his spot on the floor beside the boy, Fingon looked up and smiled. “Thank you. I usually manage to control my emotions better than that.”

“We all have moments that we lose control.  Still, I know that I am…” Curufin rubbed his chin.  “Rough,” he settled on.

Fingon laughed.  “I am just overwhelmed.  A week ago, I was making plans with my sister to go catching frogs.  Today, I find myself in the service of your house, and yet, I am still confused as to what that means.  Perhaps, if I might be so bold, I might ask you a question. What duties am I to perform? I believed I would be expected to take on menial tasks, but I get the feeling that is not the case.”

Curufin greeted the governess who entered once more to take Celebrimbor off to bed.  “I can answer that for you, in part, but first, I am curious. You did not know about this a week ago?”  When Fingon shook his head, Curufin revealed, “We have been making preparations for your arrival for over a year.”

“What?”  Fingon, alone on the floor as the governess scooped up Celebrimbor, picked up one of the amber blocks and turned it in his fingers.  “I have...did my father know?”

“Our fathers met at least three times to negotiate.  Generally, that amounted to your father bringing lists of what was permitted and what was not, and my father listening to everything, and then saying he refused to agree to the terms.  Grandfather mediated, and in the end, he made the decision.”

“That last part I knew,” said Fingon.  “Maybe I don’t want to know anymore just now.”

“Shall I tell you what I know of father’s expectations for you?”

“Please,” said Fingon.  “I admit that I thought the minute I arrived, I would be shown to the kitchens and made to wash dishes and muck out stalls in the stable, and would sleep on a rug in front of the fire or something.”

“Sounds like a strange Vanyarin faerie story.  Russa will probably want to hear all about those.   I can assure you, actual servitude is the furthest from father’s mind.  Alright, come up here, I feel like I am speaking to my child with you down there.”  Curufin waited until Fingon sat down in the empty chair at the table with him. Between them, there was a tray with the bite-sized desserts that had been left untouched after Celebrimbor chose two (“One for each hand, or he will have too many and not sleep,” Curufin had explained earlier).  Curufin’s hand hovered over the tray now, and he selected a raspberry macaron from the offerings. “Each of us has been assigned a subject. We are to assess your knowledge, devise a course of learning, and teach you. That is what will happen for the first few years. Once you are deemed proficient, then...he has not said, except that then we will engage in the second part of his plan.  My responsibility is politics, negotiation, strategy, and public speaking. I believe you know the others.”

“Makala is to mentor me in the arts, then,” guessed Fingon.  “Tyelkormo, hunting and skills of the outdoors. The Ambarussa, crafting, and Carnistir, and his wife, etiquette and...I feel there was something else.”

“Etiquette, culture...how to be a proper Noldo.  You are an extremely adept Vanya,” said Curufin. “It will be a long seven years for you, here and at the court, if you continue that way.”

“The court?”

“We are not always here.  This is just one of our residences, and of course, there is Tirion.  Of course, you are from Tirion, so I am not sure why we did not see you at the court.”

Fingon pressed his lips together and looked at the tiny cheesecakes and tarts on the tray.  “You know why,” he mumbled. “Your son knows.”

“Was that your decision, or--”

“There is a certain expectation of perfection in Grandfather’s court.  If your father intends to take me there, I do not know how my Grandmother will react.  Though she has been loving towards me, I know she is also the one who prefers I stay away.”  Fingon finally picked up one of the desserts. It was a tiny golden cake, enrobed in chocolate.  He set it on his plate but did not make a move to taste it yet. As he stared down at it, he recalled to his cousin, “I was only to the palace once.  Up until that point, I did not know how different I was from the rest of the family, because there are many like me where we live. We would walk down passages, and people stopped and stared.  When my Grandmother found out we were there, she sent one of her ladies in waiting to find us and bring us to her in a private room. My brother and I were left in another room, but we could hear them.  She demanded they consider what they were doing, and implored them to take me back home again. At first, I thought she just did not want children there, but then she made an offer to keep my brother for a few weeks in the palace, and then she said it.  ‘We cannot have a darkling child wandering the halls. What will everyone think?’” Fingon took a knife and carefully peeled the icing from the cake to reveal the buttery treat underneath. “We left immediately, and when we got back home, my mother told me to go take a bath.  She finally came to check on me about two hours later and found the water tinted with blood. I was trying to rub the color off of me.” He looked down at the dessert he had pulled apart. “It did not work. Sometimes, I think it might not have been so bad if it was not...here, see for yourself.”

Fingon unfastened the cuff of his sleeve so that he could push it back to reveal the uneven pigmentation of his skin.  “At least my face is not like this. I can cover up the rest.”

Curufin, who had come to rest an elbow on the table, had his chin on his thumb and his fingers over his mouth, which was drawn into a thin line.  As Fingon began to pull his sleeve back down, Curufin’s hand shot out and grasped Fingon’s wrist. “You should not have to hide on anyone’s account.  If it benefits you, do so, but know this--neither my father, our father for your time here and quite possibly beyond that, nor any of my brothers nor I will allow you to suffer torment from others because of how you were created.  You have my word on that.”

They sat in the room without speaking further for a little while.  Fingon fiddled with his sleeves while Curufin ate several more of the morsels on the tray.  “I suppose we should get to the performance, or Makala will think we forgot about him.” He stood up and dropped the napkin from his lap onto the table.

“You are sure no one is going to laugh at me?” asked Fingon

“I told you.  You have my word.  And if they do, I will personally deal with them,” promised Curufin.

Fingon adjusted his sleeves so that they fastened at the elbows instead.  His left arm had but a few lighter marks at the joint, but his right arm sported several noticeable differentiations.  “Then I am ready,” said Fingon.

  
  


The Hall of Mirrors was situated some distance from Curufin’s domain, and as they entered, the merriment was already in progress.  Once inside, a trumpet sounded, and the whole of those dancing and mingling turned and applauded. Fingon froze and shifted a worried gaze at Curufin.

“Turn around,” advised Curufin.

Fingon did so, and saw hanging over the doorway a large banner that read ‘Welcome Findekáno’.  “Is this a party?” he asked Curufin as the dancing resumed.

“I told you we have been planning for your arrival.”

Maglor suddenly was there, and put an arm around Fingon.  “May I borrow him, brother?”

“Impatient, are we?” teased Curufin.

“Thank you ever so!” called out Maglor.  “So, Findekáno, earlier you mentioned that you play a little harp, so I brought an extra little harp with me.  Also, there is an extra big harp as well. No pressure, but if you feel the call of the muse, I would be honored to hear another harper play.”

“Maybe,” said Fingon noncommittally. 

Most of the evening was spent listening to Maglor’s performance.  Fingon opted not to dance, citing the long journey he had taken on his own, a fact neither Celegorm nor Curufin had been aware of.  Caranthir and his wife spent the majority of the time leading the dancers, their movements practiced and graceful. 

When the dancing eventually subsided, Maglor changed to bardish tunes.  After a half dozen tunes, one of his older students came forward to play while he took a break.  He joined Celegorm, Curufin, and Fingon where they were standing. “Have you made a decision about playing for us?” whispered Maglor.

“I think I could manage one song,” offered Fingon, whose spirits were high, for just as Curufin had promised, not a single person had stared, questioned, or otherwise acknowledged the different splotches of color on his skin.

“Marvelous!” Maglor clapped his hands together several times.  “What will you play for us?” he asked. 

“I am not entirely sure,” Fingon answered.

When the apprentice musician finished, Fingon took up the place at the harp where Maglor had been.  He plucked a few of the strings to test the unfamiliar instrument, then looked around at all those assembled.

“Before I begin,” he said, “I want to let you all know how very kind you have been to me on my first day here.  I feel I have already learned much, and that it will continue as the days and weeks progress. I especially want to thank my host, my benevolent uncle, a second father to me, for acceptance with open arms.”  Fingon’s words caused Fëanor to lift a goblet in his direction. “I thank all of my newfound brothers and their wives for the hospitality I have received.” Several of them clapped or tapped their walking sticks upon the floor.  “Now, you will have to excuse me a moment--normally when I play, I ask others what they would like to hear. I shall have to think of--”

“Play ‘Princes and Kings’.”

Fingon scanned the room for the origin of the voice.  It was a voice so clear, so beautiful, and so...perfect.  It seemed that many in the room were directing their attention to the table where Fëanor was sitting, so Fingon looked there, too.  He knew the voice had not belonged to his uncle. It was the...person beside him with fiery red hair. The man? Possibly. From the clothing worn, it is what Fingon would guess, but the features looked to him to be a mixture of masculine and feminine.  Even the voice was indistinguishable, and Fingon was aware that he must be staring, for he was entranced by the appearance of the person peering back at him. 

Once again, Fingon was spoken to.  “If you know it, that is. It is my favorite.”

“It would be my deepest pleasure,” Fingon answered, and he began playing, singing clearly once he reached the lyrical part of the song:

_ A King shall be always ‘His Majesty’ _

_ Whether there be drama, delight, or tragedy _

_ A prince, however, may be highness without wings _

_ Seeking courtly approval as he dances and sings _

_ For a prince worries only of trivial things _

_ And that is the difference twixt princes and kings _

The rest of the song was similar, comparing the two royal roles.  At one point as he performed, Fingon saw Fëanor lean over to whisper to the person beside him.  There was a smile, and a brief whisper back, and then no more as Fingon finished singing the song.  Polite applause was given afterwards, and Maglor returned to his place to perform again.

Fingon approached the head table and bowed when he reached it.  Fëanor lifted his hands and clapped a few more times for Fingon.  “You are quite an accomplished musician. What do you think, Russandol?”

“I enjoyed your playing immensely,” said Maedhros.

“Thank you so much.  I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Russandol.  I was wondering when I might meet the eldest of my brothers.”

Maedhros gave the slightest hint of a smile.  “Were you? Well, here I am.”

“Am I to...cap off my night speaking to you?”  Fingon still recalled the discussion earlier in the day, and knew from Celegorm’s reaction that Maedhros must be the tallest of the brothers.  

“Oh, no.  You have had enough for one day.  You will come to see me after breakfast tomorrow,” said Maedhros.  The words were spoken with such practice that they were soothing to listen to, a poetry of their own making.

“Where shall I find you?” asked Fingon.

Maedhros smiled.  “Tomorrow,” was the only answer.

“Findekáno!  Findekáno!” Fingon turned to see Celegorm skipping over to him.  “Carnistir and I are going to take the little ones up to the top of one of the towers, and Curufinwë is going to set off some fireworks for us to see.  I am going to try to shoot them,” he said, patting his quiver. “Would you care to join us?”

“Who can say no to fireworks?” asked Fingon.

“Precisely!  Let me round up the children--I will meet you by the door!” 

As Celegorm rushed off, Fingon looked at Maedhros and asked, “Will you be joining us?”

There was a longing in Maedhros’ eyes, but the reply came in an even voice.  “I shall not. Please; do not miss them on my account.”

“Russa has had a very long day,” interjected Fëanor. “Perhaps another time.”

Fingon bit his lips and nodded, and bowed once more before moving to join Celegorm by the door, but not without taking another look over his shoulder.  Maedhros was looking sadly to the side, while Fëanor offered what was likely some sort of advice, his hand upon Maedhros’ back. Fingon nearly walked back, but he felt the tug of Celebrimbor grabbing his hand with both of his, and Fingon allowed himself to be led away to the tower.


	5. Family Matters (Ch. 4)

The next morning, Fingon awoke to a double knock on the door.  Not wanting a second morning of being invaded, he called out for pardon and dressed in haste so that he could make it to the door before it was opened for him.

There was no worry for him, for standing very calmly on the other side was a person shorter than he, and quite a lot younger from the looks of it.  She curtseyed, and Fingon bowed on principle, and the youth said, “I have come to retrieve you for breakfast, but I fear it will be cold.”

Unsure whether he was facing a servant, a very young lady in waiting to one of his cousin-in-laws, or someone of a closer relation, he nodded and said, “It is nice to meet you…?”

“Yes.  It is. Shall we go?  Did you want to put on shoes?” she asked as she looked down at Fingon’s bare feet.

“Of course.”  Fingon went to get a pair of house slippers and wondered just who his guide today was as she led him knowingly through the house.  Several times, servants would move aside and courtiers would bow as she passed; the young lady barely gave any of them a nod. When they reached a set of tall wooden double doors, she paused and said, “Grandfather is waiting for you.”

“Ah--so you are one of Uncle Fëanáro’s grandchildren,” recognized Fingon.

The girl blinked.  She placed her hands on her hips and said, “You have been here a whole day and no one has told you about me yet?”

Taken aback, Fingon tried to react as humbly as possible.  He wanted to laugh at how a young woman was so forceful, but he held himself in check.  How many times had he been laughed at for how he appeared at first meeting? Fingon placed his hands out, palms up.  “Forgive me. Perhaps you were brought up in conversation, but I have met so many people, and seen so many things, and I admit to still being half asleep.”

This seemed to appease her, and she held out her hand to him as Avalassë had.  “I am Elwénien Sandasanar. You may address me as Elwénien.”

Immediately, Fingon saw it in her eyes as he took her hand.  He kissed it as he had practiced with Avalassë. “You are the daughter of Carnistir,” he said.

Elwénien gave a single nod.  Then she looked at the doors and gave a little cough.  Fingon looked at them, realized he was to open them for her, and did so.  Elwénien walked before him, perfectly poised, as they entered the same green room he had been in the day before with her parents, though now it was Fëanor sitting at the head of the table.  Celebrimbor was there, as were the daughters of Maglor, all of them on the other end with their governesses close at hand. Elwénien took a seat beside her grandfather after giving him a tiny peck on the cheek.  “Good morning,” she said in a polite, pretty voice that was different than how she had been speaking to Fingon.

“Good morning, uncle,” said Fingon, and Fëanor motioned to the seat on his other side so that Fingon faced Elwénien.  

It appeared that the other grandchildren had been eating for some time, and there was even some egg in Celebrimbor’s hair.  Fëanor, however, had been waiting, and he snapped his fingers once. An instant later, the servers were uncovering trays of smoked meats, scrambled eggs, cut fruit, and an abundance of food that Fingon doubted the three would be able to finish.  Fingon attempted polite conversation, but Fëanor waved his hand, told him to eat, and that the minstrels would begin soon. Right he was, for a quartet began playing for their amusement, and a juggler appeared to entertain the children at the other end of the table.  

The meal was expertly orchestrated, and the minstrels seemed to know exactly when to stop playing.  The juggler disappeared; the governesses assessed the mess with one of the maids and extracted the children from the breakfast table.  After a quick clean-up, all three bounded down to hug their grandfather.

Celebrimbor was first, scrambling up onto his grandfather’s lap.  “Telperinquar, what are you going to be doing today?” Fëanor asked, focusing solely on the child.

“I have to have a bath, and then I am going to go outside and look for bugs!” he said with glee.  “And then I am going to practice tying knots. I did this one myself!” he announced as he stuck his foot up, almost smacking Fëanor in the nose with his shoe.

“Very good!  I think by the end of the week, you will be an expert knot-tier,” declared Fëanor.  He received another hug and then placed Celebrimbor back on the floor. 

The younger of Maglor’s daughters was next.  She lifted her arms and waited for Fëanor to pick her up and set her upon his lap.  “What will you be doing today, Isimawén?”

“I am going to practice my flute more.  I am getting really good at not spitting into it,” she declared, and from her seat, Elwénien lifted her napkin to conceal a look of disapproval. Isimawén continued on, telling her grandfather, “I am making an art with watercolors for Uncle Tyelkormo.  It has dogs.”

“Oh--I am sure your uncle will love that,” Fëanor said.  He accepted a fierce hug from Isimawén, embracing her back, and then she hopped off of his lap so that her sister could sit on her grandfather’s knee.

The older sister did not need help getting up on Fëanor’s lap, but she did put an arm around his neck to steady herself.  “I am going to ride my pony today,” she said. “I am also going to practice my letters. Uncle Russa is making me something to help,” she said.

“How kind of your uncle to do that for you, Calwendë.  I look forward to seeing what it is,” Fëanor said. He hugged her, too, and then all three of the children and their governesses disappeared through one of the many doors in the room.  Fëanor set his eyes upon the oldest of his grandchildren. “What will you be doing today, Sandasanar?”

Elwénien folded her hands in front of her and said, “I have been memorizing sonnets to recite at Uncle Tyelkormo’s upcoming marriage ceremony.  I will be practicing them with Uncle Makala today, and I am also going to have a clarinet lesson with Aunt Quetilien. After lunch, I am to go riding with Calwendë, and will be playing cards in the salon tonight with Aunt Nindariel.”

“Such a full day--I shall not keep you from it, then,” Fëanor said, and after he received another peck on the cheek, Elwénien curseyed to Fingon again, and left the room.  Once they were alone, Fëanor looked at Fingon and asked, “What do you think of her?”

Caught off-guard, Fingon regained his composure quickly and said, “She is a very determined young lady with a diversity of interests.”

“Mmm.  That she is,” agreed Fëanor.  “She would make a excellent wife for many a member of nobility.”

Fingon was not sure if he was supposed to give a response, so he nodded.

Fëanor smiled.  “I am glad you agree, Findekáno.  I should hope you will not find this too forward, but my son’s wedding, as you have heard, is impending.  It will be Elwénien’s first public event, and she will need a proper escort. You should speak to Carnistir about it.  I am sure he would feel better if it were family.”

“I would be honored.  I will speak with him when next I see him,” said Fingon, feeling a little relieved.  That was until Fëanor spoke again.

“Very good.  Who knows--perhaps the match will be more than an escort for the evening,” suggested Fëanor.  Before Fingon was forced to react to this, Fëanor stood up, and Fingon stood as well. “If you return where you came in, you will find Tyelkormo waiting for you.  The weather is good for the hunt, and you should accompany him. After lunch, Nindariel has offered to give you a tour--that is Curufinwë’s wife.”

“When will I have a chance to spend time with my eldest cousin?” asked Fingon when it seemed Fëanor had no more to say. “I thought I was to see him today after breakfast.”

Fëanor seemed, for once, uncomfortable.  He cleared his throat and said, “We were going to postponed that meeting--Russa has been very busy--but...I will speak to Russa.  If the workload is light, then perhaps this evening.”

“I would like that very much.  I would like to know all of my cousins,” Fingon said sincerely. 

Fëanor stared at Fingon for a moment, and then patted his shoulder with a smile.  “Then you shall. It will be arranged.”


	6. Illumination (Ch. 5)

“And that completes the tour.  Well, the tour of the common areas.  There is more to see, but I do not want to overwhelm you, nor do I want to intrude on what others are doing in some of the family spaces,” said Nindariel.  So far, of all of the ladies who had married into the House of Fëanor, she seemed the one who Fingon could comfortably speak with the longest. Avalasse intimidated him almost as much as her daughter (whom he had lunch with, as Fëanor, sitting at the table with them, did not dine, but instead offered conversation prompts as they ate.)  Quetilien was nice, but from the few times thus far that Fingon had spoken to her, seemed prone to daydreaming and subject changing. He and Nindariel managed to explore the house for hours and enjoy pleasant conversation as they did so.

“Thank you so much for this.  I do not know if I could fully navigate on my own, but this will help immensely,” Fingon said.

“You are very welcome.  I would invite you to come to the salon to play cards tonight, but I have a feeling you will want to spend time in the library this evening.”

“The library...did I miss that on the tour?” asked Fingon. “I think I would have recalled a library.”

“Oh, that is because it is like the conservatory.  You see, each of Father Fëanor’s sons has a specialty and a space for it that is their own.  Some are in the house and some are freestanding structures. Tyelkormo has a little hunting lodge out in the woods for when he takes parties out for several days, and Carnistir has the ballroom for his parties, and for Russa, that means the library,” explained Nindariel.  “Following dinner, I am to take you to the library to speak to Russa, and while Father Fëanor seems to think this will be brief--call it a hunch. I think you will want to spend some time speaking to Russa.”

“Why is that?” queried Fingon.

“Intuition,” was all Nindariel would say.

Fingon looked up and down the hallway.  At the moment, they were alone, and in the short time they had spoken he felt he could trust her.  “Do you happen to know--am I to have supper with Elwénien?”

“I did not check the itinerary.  Why do you ask?”

Once again, Fingon checked the hall.  “It feels very strange. My uncle looks at me as if I am potential suitor, and she is but a child.”

“Mmm.  Yes, I feel that Carnistir is moving a little too rapidly with the idea of securing a betrothal for his daughter,” Nindariel said.

“Oh, thank heavens--I was beginning to worry that everyone around here just agreed the same way about everything!”

Nindariel laughed.  “You poor thing! Have you been holding your tongue since you arrived?  You are allowed to have an opinion here,” she said. “First things first--Elwénien.  You are the fifth ‘potential suitor’. By her fifteenth birthday, Carnistir began to insist she have possible future husbands to consider.  Father Fëanor attempted to arrange the first four, and Carnistir is the impatient one, so Father Fëanor told him if he believes he can do better, then he can attempt to make the arrangements.  You made a positive impression on Carnisitir, so he is the one insisting on these meetings.”

“While that makes me feel slightly better, it also worries me that someone began to consider her future husband when she was a little girl,” fussed Fingon.  “Is that normal?”

“Here?  Yes. Father Fëanor married quite young, and while some might argue that making such a decision at such a young age could have adverse effects later, especially in his case, he would deny that.  He has carried through with that tradition for most of his sons.”

“You do speak your mind,” Fingon said, voice laced with envy.  “If I may ask, how old were you and your husband when you married?”

“He was thirty-nine, the same age his father was when he married, and I was forty-five.  This is part of why everyone is concerned about Tyelkormo; he and his bride-to-be keep putting off the wedding, so he obviously is well beyond being of age, as is she.”  A bell rang out three times, and Fingon knew at this point that it meant dinner. Nindariel touched Fingon’s shoulder. “In a few days time, you will have a relaxed, regular schedule.  We can talk more then. Excuse me; I have people awaiting me in the salon.”

Dinner, it turned out, was with Tyelkormo and his betrothed. “Istyassë,” was all she said to Fingon when she greeted him.  She was thin, pale, and silver-blonde, and seemed a harsh contrast to the robust and woodsy appearance of Tyelkormo. Her conversation was comprised of little gestures, smiles, frowns, and the occasional fluttering of her eyes.  It was Tyelkormo who dominated, telling a story of the day’s hunt even though Fingon had been part of it. In all honesty, he barely paid attention to what was eaten or said, for his mind was on his hope that he would finally have a chance to meet the elusive copper-haired cousin he had been promised audience with.

And so, after dessert, when Fëanor entered the room and approached Fingon, his heart sunk a little, expecting another rejection.  But then, Fëanor asked, “Do you need to stop at your room before we go to the library?”

“No!  I mean, no thank you,” Fingon hastily said as he stood up.  He exchanged pleasantries with Tyelkormo and Istyassë, and then followed Fëanor out and through a series of corridors that may or may not have been on the tour earlier.  Fingon did not expect that they had reached their destination when they were standing before a humble door.

“This is it,” said Fëanor.  “I hope you enjoy your evening.”

“You as well, uncle,” said Fingon.  He waited for Fëanor to take a few paces away before he entered the library.

Sitting at a long wooden table was Maedhros, whose head lifted briefly before looking back down again at whatever work was being done.  “You will have to forgive me. I am working on something I promised my niece. I am hoping to finish it this evening. If you would like to look around while I do this, you are more than welcome to do so.”

Fingon gave a nod even though it was unseen and calmly strolled around the large room.  The dominant color, as he expected, was red, which he found unusual for a library. The shelves were made of walnut wood, and it added to the warmth he felt as he explored.  Around the perimeter were areas for scrolls, leaflets, unbound pages, maps, and other loose items. In the center were the books, which included a mix of those with covers and those that were just collections of bound folios.  There were no windows, so he had to rely on the candlelight to provide what brightness it could. Fingon pulled one from a shelf and opened it to a random page.

 

He stared at it and then flipped to other pages, finding more of the undecipherable text.  After placing this book back, he reached for the one beside it and found more of the same inside.  He tried another shelf, but it was, once again, incomprehensible to him.

Slowly he made his way back to the edges of the room and removed a scroll from its neat wooden compartment.  As it was unfurled, he softly groaned in dismay to see that it, too, was devoid of Sarati and full of unknown symbols.  As pretty as they were, they meant nothing to Fingon, and he chose instead to look around at the facility.

There were little alcoves between the shelving around the walls, big enough for two or three people to comfortably sit and converse.  In a few places between the bookshelves were tables, more than likely for research purposes. Then Fingon saw that there was a stairway peeking out from the side of the shelves, and he headed up.

The mezzanine was not large, but it allowed someone to see most of the library from above.  It did not, however, allow sight of the other occupant. Here there were some couches, chairs, and a fireplace, but no tables, and the only documents were some impressively large maps on the walls.

“You may return.  I have finished.”

Fingon raced down the first four steps until decorum kicked in and he slowed his steps so that he reached the bottom gracefully.  He went back to the table at the front. Maedhros was still sitting there, but looked tired now that Fingon had a chance to really look at his cousin.  Even with the telling dark marks beneath stormy grey eyes, Maedhros was a beautiful elf, and Fingon felt he had a need to express this in some way, though he knew not why.  “I believe that you prefer to be called Russa, but I did not know if you preferred that only from your close family, or if that would extend to cousins, or if you would prefer another name, such as Maitimo.”

“Oh.  You know that one.”

“Sorry.  Should I not say that?” fretted Fingon.

Maedhros smiled.  “No, it is fine. That is my mother’s name for me, so I have not heard it in a very long while.  For a while, in my youth, I refused to answer to it because it made me feel like I was to be a peacock, strutting about, but eventually, I found I liked that more than my father’s name for me.  Then Russandol happened, and Russa stuck. You may call me Maitimo if you like.”

“I would like that,” Fingon answered.

Maedhros waved a hand to a tray that had not been on the table when Fingon arrived.  Clearly, one of the servants had come in unnoticed. “I was informed that you did not eat much at supper, and I have not eaten since lunch, so my father had food sent to us.  Please; help yourself.”

The tray was filled with all of the homey things that Fingon liked best--sliced elk sausage and marbled cheese that was not too hard nor too soft, pieces of spongey white cake and slices of baked cheese pie, and syrupy strawberries to top the sweets.  There was a bowl of candies, too, wrapped in pieces of paper of varying colors, and while these attracted Fingon first, he knew to eat some of the meat and cheese before he went for dessert.

Maedhros ate little, and after a companionable silence, asked, “And what name did your mother give you, Findekáno?”

Fingon pressed his lips together, not expecting the question, and uncertain about the answer.  “Maybe I should not have started this conversation. I will tell you, though it is presumptuous.”

Maedhros raised a brow.

“She called me Astaldo.”

“Valiant Findekáno.”  A smile played upon Maedhros’ lips.  “And you do not believe this suits you?

“Maybe someday.  I do not think I have grown into it yet.”

Maedhros laughed.  “I understand.”

“Oh, no, you most deservedly have earned yours.”

Upon hearing this, Maedhros turned away.  When Maedhros turned back, a lingering blush had spread from ear to ear.  “Well. Thank you. If you are going to call me Maitimo, then I think I should get to call you Astaldo.”

Now it was Fingon who blushed.  “I think that would be fair, Maitimo.”  He now noticed several stacks of colored cards organized on the table.  “Is this your project?” he asked as he fussed over the desserts as a distraction.

Maedhros fanned out one of the stacks.  “It is. Calwendë is falling behind in her language studies, so I made her some study aids for Tengwar.  Her sister is reading at a higher level than she is, so I am going to try to help Calwendë catch up.”

“I saw some of these...they were in the books...what did you call these?”

“Tengwar--well, these are--wait.  Can you not read these?” asked Maedhros.

“Well at least now I know it is a language,” muttered Fingon as he pulled one of them closer to take a look.

 

“That is ‘anca’,” said Maedhros.  Long, elegant fingers turned the card so that it faced the correct way for Fingon to see it.  “Pull up a chair. I have a feeling we might be here for a while.”

Fingon did as instructed, and folded his hands in front of him as Maedhros laid out another card.

 

 

“My father created a writing system that is easier than Sarati.  He calls it Tengwar. This is a tengwa, an individual consonant. This one is ‘ungwe’.  Now, you see the marks above the word ‘ungwe’ as it is written out on the bottom?” asked Maedhros.

“I see them.  I do not understand them,” Fingon readily admitted.

Maedhros smiled.  “All in good time.  Those represent the vowel sounds.  Vowels do not have their own tengwa.  They either have a carrier, such as the first one here, or they are combined with a tengwa, as with the second symbol you see on the bottom.  However, not every tehta is a vowel sound. It could mean the doubling of a letter, or a nasal sound.”

Fingon had his elbow on the table and his fingers gently massaged the side of his head.  “I am going to have to learn this if I want to partake in written communication here.”

“Most likely, yes.  Invitations, menus, books...everything, really.  While many here know how to write using Sarati, and we still have some documents that utilized that writing system, nearly everything here uses Tengwar,” Maedhros explained.

Fingon looked over all of the foreign symbols, moving them around to get a better look at them.  “I like this one,” he finally said as he pulled a particular card from the stack it was on.

 

“Ngoldo,” said Maedhros.  “That seems accurate.”

“It looks like ocean waves.  Also, I like the color red.”

“Do you?”  Maedhros did not wait for further clarification.  A blank card was taken up and a brush was dipped into the ink.  “Findekáno...lots of vowels.” Several characters were written onto the cards and it was waved before it was held out to Fingon.  “Your name.”

 

Fingon took the card and looked it over.  “I will admit that it is very pretty.” He tried to hand it back, but Maedhros put up a hand.

“A gift.  If you would like, I can instruct you.  I have taught many people how to read and write.”

Once again, Fingon looked at the card with his name written upon it.  He looked up and said, “You are not the person I thought you were.”

“Why is that?” asked Maedhros.

“I thought you were avoiding me,” Fingon admitted.

Maedhros looked down.  “I guess the perception is that I avoid a lot of people and things.”  Maedhros looked back up. “I have my reasons.”

Fingon saw another blank card and nudged it forward.  “What does your name look like?” he asked.

Maedhros took up the brush again and carefully made a handful of strokes with it.  Then this, too, was handed to Fingon.

 

 

“So, this letter here…is this one different from the one in my name, or did you just make it fancier?” asked Fingon.

“I just like writing it that way when I write my name.  A little more curl on the ends.” Maedhros set the brush down carefully.  “How well do you write now?”

Feeling it was a challenge, Fingon picked up the brush that Maedhros had held and shuffled the cards about until he found another that was blank.  He carefully copied the nearest card and passed it back to Maedhros.

 

 

“This is not bad.  Your telcos should not extend down so far with this letter, but your lúvas are good--we can work on getting them to be identical.  Your brushstrokes are very nice,” commended Maedhros.

“And which one is this?” asked Fingon.

“This is anto,” said Maedhros.  “And if you pull the tail of anto down, then you get ando.  I have all sorts of mnemonics I can teach you for that, but I doubt you want to start Tengwar lessons this time of night.”

“I find this fascinating.  I did not even know this existed.”  Fingon crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.  “I am not surprised. I keep finding things I was never exposed to.”

“Such as?” asked Maedhros.

“Arranged marriages.  The idea that other family members would...interview people for the position of spouse for someone.”  Fingon looked from the cards on the table to Maedhros, whose hands were folded, elbows on the table, chin resting on hands.  “Was your marriage arranged?”

“I am not married.”

“Oh.  Sorry.  I mean, not sorry...I...I just mean--”

“I am doubtful I will ever marry.”

“Oh.”  Fingon furrowed his brow.  “Why not?”

Maedhros studied one of the candles on the table.  “There used to be a word for it, in ancient days, but no one speaks of it anymore.”

Fingon looked at the same candle that flickered.  “What was the word?”

“Gwegwin.  Obsolete now.”

“Never heard that before.”  Fingon stifled a yawn. “I need more clues than that.”

Maedhros found another blank card and retrieved the brush again.  There was hesitation before the brush stroked began. The card was slid across the table once finished.

“Uh…”  Fingon turned it to one side, then upside down, then back around again.  “What am I even--”

Maedhros snatched the card back and grasped a second brush.  This one was dipped into the red ink. After an addition, Maedhros passed the card back.

Fingon ended up with a smear of red ink on his fingers as he took hold of the image again and studied it.

 

 

Once again, Fingon struggled as Maedhros watched intensely.  “You think no one will want to marry you because you make eclectic fashion choices?”

“Gwegwin means someone who is part man and part...not man.”

Fingon looked at the picture again.  “Part...ainur?”

Maedhros blinked.  “Part...part...female.”  The words came out forced and quiet.

“Oh.  Oh!” Fingon held up the image.  “Pants and a dress. Got it.” He put the card onto the table.  “So you wear dresses sometimes?”

“No…”  Maedhros sat back a little and looked over Fingon.  “Your first question is ‘do you wear a dress’?”

“Well… you drew one in the picture.  I still do not ‘get’ it. I see no reason why someone would not want to marry you because of this.”

“I have physical parts of a man and physical parts of--”

“Oh, I got that part.  I meant, marriage...companionship.  Surely, there is someone for everyone.”

Maedhros blinked again.  “So it... does not bother you?”

“Why should it?  Why should it bother anyone?”  Fingon adjusted his position. The events of the day had taken a toll, but with such an interesting topic at hand, he did not want to have to excuse himself.  “Obviously, Eru created you this way, for some purpose. Why should anyone think to question that?”

“If I could stand up right now, I would come over there and kiss you.”

While he wanted to address the sudden expression of affection, it was the first part that Fingon felt needed clarification.  “Why are you unable to--”

An abrupt knock on the door cut him off, and Curufin was now entering the room.  He slowed his pace when he saw Fingon. “My apologies. I thought you would be finished, Russa.  Should I come back?”

“No, actually, I need to use the loo, and my legs are screaming.”  Maedhros carefully began to place the lids on the ink.

“I am sorry to cut your discussion short,” said Curufin.  “I will exit so you can finish your conversation.”

Maedhros tapped a finger on the table.  “No.” When Curufin turned, Maedhros continued with, “I think I would like to continue speaking with him in my chambers.  If he is amiable.” Maedhros looked at Fingon.

Fingon looked between the brothers and then nodded.  “However, I do not want to impose.”

Curufin chewed his lip.  “Russa…” He looked at the table, as if he could see through it.

“I want him to know.  He is going to be here for seven years.  He is our brother now.”

“As you wish,” Curufin said.  He came around the table as Maedhros finished cleaning up.  “Let me know when you are ready.”

“Just a moment.  I need to make a note for the scribes so that they know where to deliver these.”  Maedhros wrote some things in the swirling Tengwar that had been shown to Fingon and set it with the neat stacks of cards.  “Ready.”

Fingon stood as Curufin tipped the chair Maedhros sat on back, and now Fingon noticed wheels that were attached to the back legs.  Maedhros reached under the arms of the chair to press something, and the arms both swung down. “My disability,” said Maedhros. “Something I cannot hide from the world.  The healers that have seen me have told me it is because I am too tall, but I do not think that can be reversed. I get aches and cramps, and it is hard to walk at times--not always, but enough to need chairs with wheels and railings along walls.  I get dizzy spells, so it is not safe for me to walk the stairs without an escort. Essentially, I am broken.”

“Not so,” scolded Curufin gently.  “Not so at all. You have a mind that far exceeds any two of the rest of us.  Alright, on three...one...two…” Curufin lifted Maedhros up in his arms on three.  Long legs jutted far out at first, but Maedhros soon tucked in as much as possible to assist in being moved.  “Findekáno, if you could, there is a door in the back, straight back, behind the stairs. If you could open it, please?”

Fingon nodded.  He gathered up the cards with the names as well as the one he had written and went to open the door as directed.  He followed along, through secret back corridors and up two separate flights of stairs until they reached the luxurious rooms that Maedhros called home.

Curufin crossed the parlor to another door that Fingon opened.  This one was a small chamber, and Curufin exited without Maedhros a minute later.  “I am going to wait for Russa to come out, but then I think, if you think you can handle it, I will return to my rooms.  If Russa asks about it, I put the willow bark by the bedside, but there is also a tincture over here, which is usually better this time of night anyhow.”

“Willow bark by his bed, tincture over here.  Got it. I imagine I can carry him if he--alright, people keep making that face when I use pronouns, and no one has given me any explanation until Maitimo told me something tonight, and even that was vague.  So...do I not use pronouns for Maitimo? Is there a different pronoun I should use? What should I do?”

Curufin bit his lip.  “It would be better for Russa to explain, but...the truth is, no one knows what to use.  Even Russa does not know. So we just avoid it. If we are in public or when we go to court, then we use he and him.”  Curufin ran a hand over his hair. “It is complicated,” he said. “Anyhow, you will not likely have to lift Russa.” Curufin pointed to the copper bar that encircled the room.  The room itself was not red, as Fingon might have imagined, but purple, black, and violet with hints of red. There was plush carpeting and all of the chairs were cozy and inviting.  “Russa has enough upper body strength to maneuver between the rooms. We tried to come up with a plan for the library, but everything was so cumbersome.”

“It was ugly and it made my beautiful shelves of books look ugly.”  Maedhros was exiting the water closet, with one hand on the copper bar.  “Thank you for getting me up here, Curufinwë.”

“Of course.  Can I assist you with anything else?” asked Curufin.

“No, thank you.  Good night.”

“Good night, Russa.  Good night, Findekáno.”

“Good night.”  Fingon watched Curufin leave, and then looked at Maedhros.  

“I suppose now you think I am weak,” Maedhros said, struggling to keep upright.

Fingon shook his head as he moved forward to offer his arm as an additional support.  Maedhros grasped Fingon’s arm, body trembling a little less. Fingon aided Maedhros to one of the chairs before he crouched beside the chair and spoke.  “The more I discover, the more convinced I am that Maitimo indeed suits you well.”

Those tired grey eyes sparkled, and Maedhros asked, “Are you trying to curry my favor with your words in the hopes of earning another kiss?”

“Then that would be two you owe me,” said Fingon, and he closed his eyes and attempted something he had never done before, knowing that the deed could not be undone.  His stomach fluttered and his fingers twitched, and the sweetness on his lips tingled. He began to lean up for a second when he felt a finger press to his mouth.

“You get the other when you can write the entire alphabet from memory for me in Tengwar.”

Fingon smiled and opened his eyes as he reached out to take hold of Maedhros’ hand.  “That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” he whispered just before he kissed the back of Maedhros’ hand.

“Motivation is a powerful thing.”  Maedhros looked at a desk in the corner and back to Fingon.  “I keep paper and quills in there.”

Fingon hastily kissed the back of Maedhros’ hand and rushed to the desk.


	7. Love Alters Not Where It Alteration Finds (Chapter 6)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings! I have fallen slightly behind on commenting back, for I was scrambling to finish the bingoing in time (which I did), and I have a new real life challenge to contend with (my mother-in-law's apartment traded hands, and after 31 years of living in the same place she's being evicted -_-). This may complicate the rate of release over the next month, but rest assured, these muses are vocal and there is more to come. Thank you all for your comments and observations -- they really have helped in this realm that I feel is outside of my wheelhouse. (After writing a decade and a half about a completely dysfunctional relationship Mae & Fin, this version has been a delight to work with.) Happy reading!

A sharp crack was heard by both parties as Fingon sat up and slowly moved his neck to one side.  “I think I need to take a break.” After much writing and quizzing and rewriting, he had a dozen of the characters fully memorized, including calma, arda, and parma.  Fingon moved his neck the other way and two additional lesser noises could be heard by them both.

Maedhros was in the chair, having only needed aid in returning to the water closet once.  A stool had been brought over eventually for Maedhros’ feet, and a blanket was draped over Maedhros, for the fire was burning low now.  Fingon had a shawl around his shoulders, but it was slipping off on one side. He pulled it back up now with a shiver. 

“I never expected you would continue on this long.  You are very persistent.”

“I have excellent motivation.” Fingon held up what he had accomplished proudly.  “Soon, I will come to collect.”

Maedhros smiled.  “Then I believe you have earned your reward.”  Maedhros lifted one arm to beckon Fingon. 

The page of perfectly written letters was set down carefully, but Fingon hurriedly escaped the desk and knocked over the chair in the process.  Maedhros chuckled as Fingon half-flailed on his way back over, and practically fell into Maedhros. They crashed together, and did not stop at just one kiss, warmth rushing through both of them to chase off the chill.

After several minutes, they were both sporting a healthy blush in their cheeks, and Fingon paused only to readjust, but Maedhros took him by the shoulders and looked at him seriously.  “Do you remember how to get back to your suite from here?”

Thinking he had overstepped some boundary, Fingon rested back on his heels. “I...can probably figure it out,” he said softly.

“No...sorry!  Oh, you have such beautiful, sad eyes,” murmured Maedhros.  “I only meant because it is so late, and if you do not know the way, you are likely to wake people as you attempt to return.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Fingon as he reached up to tuck a lock of red hair back behind Maedhros’ ear.

Maedhros turned just enough to kiss Fingon’s retreating wrist.  “You could stay here.”

“I am not sure how proper that would be,” Fingon admitted.

Several seconds passed.  With jaw set, Maedhros looked at the dying embers in the fireplace.  “I am sorry. I should not have said that.” Maedhros’ voice trembled.  “I feel like such a...sexual deviant even making the suggestion. I just...I just get so lonely all alone.  All of my brothers have their wives, and the Ambarussa have each other, and even Tyelkormo has his dog, I just--sorry.  Sorry.”

Fingon was already rubbing Maedhros’ shoulder, and when the speech was over, kissed Maedhros’ nose.  “You are lonely like me, but possibly worse. I only feel this way because I am in a strange place without my family; you feel this way in your own home.”

Maedhros nodded.

“Then I shall stay with you tonight,” said Fingon.

Fingon helped Maedhros to the bedroom, where there was, as expected, a bed, as well as another desk and a corner chair that was wide and looked comfortable.  A dresser was in another corner, and a basket near the door for laundry. Once seated on the edge of the bed, Maedhros seemed to internally war about what was to be said or done next.  “Would you mind waiting in the other room for a few minutes? I will call you back when I am done.”

“That gives me time to practice unque,” said Fingon, and though his eyelids were drooping, he pressed on at the desk while Maedhros was alone in the bedroom, and practiced an entire page and a half of the same symbol over and over until he heard Maedhros call timidly to him from behind the door. 

When Fingon entered, he found that there was dim light in the room from candles that were lit, and a robe was draped over the foot of the bed.  Maedhros was in the bed, the blankets pulled up, covering nearly everything. Fingon could only see Maedhros’ face, and the burst of red from the gorgeous flaming hair.  “I thought you might want to change in the other room,” offered Maedhros. 

“Of course.”  Fingon picked up the robe and turned to leave again.

“F-Findekáno?”

Fingon pivoted around again.  “Yes?”

The blankets near the foot of the extremely long bed moved quite a lot, and Fingon imagined it had to be some nervous twitch or tapping of Maedhros’ foot.  “I just wanted to tell you...if, later or tomorrow or even tonight you...you change your mind...I want to thank you for this evening. This is probably going to come out completely wrong, but...I never thought I could find anyone who could understand me.  I thought I was...a mistake. I still...no, I…” 

Fingon came back to the bed and set the robe down.  He sat down on the edge and placed a hand upon Maedhros’ cheek.  “Please, do not be afraid to tell me what you wish to say. I think I can safely say I have...well, now I am tongue-tied,” he said.  He took a deep breath. “I think I am in love with you.”

“Despite the fact we are half-cousins?” asked Maedhros, and there was such a hopeful note to the words.

“Despite the fact we are cousins,” said Fingon firmly.  He leaned down and brushed his lips against those of Maedhros.  “I dare anyone to even think it to be deviant. Now you,” he said gently.  “What are you wishing to tell me?”

Maedhros swallowed hard.  “I have endured for years thinking I am an abomination--some misconceived child, not of Eru, but touched by the hand of darkness in some way.  But now, I see you, and I think, maybe this has always been Eru’s plan all along. Maybe there are times even He cannot decide. And so, he makes you, so kind, so truthful, and he cannot choose between brown and white, and so he paints you with all his colors.  And me, he cannot decide, should I be a boy or a girl...and so...here I am. It is nice to finally have...a companion of abnormality. No, that is not what I wanted to say,” Maedhros muttered.

Fingon stroked Maedhros’ face until grey eyes looked upon him again.  “You are not some abnormality,” he whispered. “You are a creature of beauty that few can understand.  You are unique, and you are special.”

A hand snaked up from beneath the covers, for Maedhros was crying now, and the tears were wiped away by both of them.  “I so appreciate your words,” Maedhros said. “My father used to say such things, but...I think he believes me too old now to need encouragement.”

“We are none of us too old that we no longer yearn to hear that we belong and are wanted, and I can wholeheartedly tell you that with every moment, I want you even more.”  Immediately, Fingon realized his phrasing, and followed up with, “Oh, shit, that just sounded like I am asking--I mean...eventually, I...but...not that--”

“Thank the Valar it is not just me,” Maedhros countered.  “I keep feeling this intensity and fear that I will say the wrong thing to you.”

“Well, I think I might have just about said the wrong thing to you,” Fingon said.  “What I meant is…” Fingon paused to rework the words in his head.

“It is alright.  I understand. And to be honest...it was rather nice, though unintended, to hear that someone would desire me in that way,” Maedhros said in a slow and soft voice.  “I did not know if that was something you might consider in the future.”

“My precious cousin, how could you think I would not?” Fingon blushed a little.  “We have been kissing intermittently all evening.”

Maedhros’ lips formed a thin line and cloudy eyes looked away.

Then Fingon guessed the riddle, and said, “You have been kissed before, and others were not so kind to you in the end.”

A few sniffles were the only sounds for a bit, and then Maedhros revealed: “It is difficult when you have a father who has expectations of his children marrying early, and rush into much of it, only to later be known as a ‘the freak-girl with the penis’ or ‘the unusual near-boy with...with…’”  Maedhros sniffles again. “I tried. I really tried, for him, but...no one wanted me.”

Instantly, Fingon pulled Maedhros up into his arms.  Holding on tightly as Maedhros clung to him and sobbed, Fingon whispered as his own tears fell, “I do.  I want you. In fact, I need you. I did not know that until tonight, but I need you. We need each other.  I am convinced that grandfather knew that, and that was why he was adamant about this arrangement.”

“But in seven years--”

“--either I will have to tell my parents I am staying here, or you will have to tell your father you are coming with me.”

For a little while, they remained in that way.  Finally, the tears ceased, and they kissed, and Maedhros yanked the covers back up when they began to slip down.  “I sleep in the nude,” came the hurried reply, and Fingon blushed once again at this.

“I want to talk more tomorrow, about some of the things we spoke of tonight,” said Fingon.  “But I also know it is very, very late, and that tomorrow there will be an itinerary awaiting us both.  I am going to change into that robe, and bring the stool back for my feet so that I can sleep in the chair in the corner, unless you object.”

Maedhros began to answer, but winced, for the now a tuft of unruly red hair had caught on a button attached to the cuff of Fingon’s shirt, and they detangled themselves.  “You can sleep wherever you like,” offered Maedhros.

“Thank you.  Uh...second question, or...well, that other part was not a question really, but...anyhow, where do you keep a hairbrush?  I should like to run it through my hair and then, if you would permit me, I know that you were sore much earlier this evening and have taken little to nothing for it.  I would like to brush your hair for you, if you do not think it too forward of me.”

“I would love that,” Maedhros said.

When Fingon returned again, Maedhros had placed a hairbrush on the bed and another throw wrapped like a shawl for modesty.  Fingon had already unbraided his hair in the adjoining room, and now ran the brush through it before he wove it together again into two braids.  He then carefully arranged himself in a kneeling position on the bed so that he could brush Maedhros’ hair. “When I have finished, would you like me to bring you some of the bark that Curufinwë left for you?”

“I might chew a bit of it now, if you do not mind getting it for me.”  Maedhros held the brush as Fingon retrieved a little bowl that held small pieces of willow bark.  Maedhros took a piece and said, “You can have some, too, if you like. All of that writing had to have cramped up your wrist and neck.”

“I have no idea what this is,” Fingon admitted.

“Willow bark.  You have never used it?”

Fingon shook his head.  “We observe Vanyarin customs and culture in my household.”  When this did not seem to make sense to Maedhros, Fingon added, “We do not use medicines.”

“At all?  What is wrong with--”  Maedhros stopped. “Sorry.  I--”

Fingon lifted a brow.  “Go on.”

Maedhros turned the bark over and over.  “That was judgemental of me.”

“You are not the first person to have that reaction.”  Fingon poked at the bark in the bowl. “There was a lady once who offered us something when Turukáno vomited when we were walking along the beach.  My parents declined, she insisted, they explained, she publicly shamed them. My father had to pick up Turukáno and carry him as my mother and I hurried to keep up while she shouted things at them about how they were unfit parents and all of their children would die and it would be on their heads and clearly their bad decisions were why I looked like I did.  She kept screaming at us and making obscene gestures until we were so far from the beach she must have decided it was not worth following us further. Two years later, she began to teach at the school Turukáno and I used to attend.”

“What happened after that?” asked Maedhros.

Fingon began to lift finger after finger.  “We never went to the beach again. I was required to keep myself covered if I was outside of the house.  My parents put Turukáno on a strict diet for the next three years just to be sure he would not vomit again in public.  If we were injured or ill and anyone asked about medicines we were to say we already had some. Our parents decided to teach us at home once she showed up at the school.  We had to limit which friends came over, so eventually we just stopped having friends over.”

“I get it,” Maedhros said before Fingon could keep going.  “I am sorry. It was very rude of me to put it that way. I just never thought anyone would deny themselves use of something as basic as willow bark.”

Fingon, who had been speaking a bit gruffly, relaxed a little and put the bowl aside on the table by the bedside.  He booped Maedhros’ nose and said, “I forgive you. Let me finish brushing your hair, and then we can both get some rest.  I am sure part of my emotional response is due to stress and fatigue.”

Maedhros leaned forward to kiss Fingon’s nose and then handed the hairbrush to him.  As Fingon finished brushing Maedhros’ hair, Maedhros chewed the bark with a thoughtful look.  When Fingon completed the task and put the brush away, only to return to braid Maedhros’ hair, Maedhros asked, “What do you do for aches and pains if you do not use the cures healers have discovered?”

“We have healers, but they have other methods.  I want to be clear--if someone breaks a bone, it is set.  If someone has a wound, it is dressed,” said Fingon. “We just do not believe in putting into our bodies that which is not...meant to be.”  Fingon sighed and moved to sit on the bed partially facing Maedhros. “Now I sound like a jerk.”

“Not as bad as I did,” Maedhros said.  A hand once again slid out from the covers and took hold of one of Fingon’s hands.  “I really want to know more. What would you do for a headache?”

“We have massage, and meditation, and acupuncture--”

“Needles?” Maedhros grimaced.

Fingon kissed the back of Maedhros’ hand.  “It is not what it sounds like. It can help.”

“Interesting.”  Maedhros squeezed Fingon’s hand.  “What about...leg pain? Or pain in the hips or back?”

“Well...probably everything I just mentioned, but treatment using hot baths would not be uncommon.”  Fingon nuzzled Maedhros’ hand and asked, “Has anyone tried anything for you other than...this?” he asked as he nodded at the bark.  

“Yes…”  Maedhros coughed and mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“Uh...they tried to rid my body of the negative humours.”

“Is that...wait, is that bloodletting?”

Maedhros shrugged.  “Yes.”

“Blood is supposed to stay in the body.”

“...yes.  Please...do not tell my father I told you about this,” begged Maedhros.

“...alright.  Do I get to know why?”

“It was my mother’s idea.”  Maedhros sighed. “The biggest reason my parents are at odds is because of me.”

“Ah.  Something else for us to discuss tomorrow.”  Fingon kissed Maedhros’ forehead. “Is there anything else I can get you before I settle in for the night?”

“May I have the bowl again so that I can spit out the bark?”

Fingon placed the unchewed bark on a handkerchief and held the bowl for Maedhros.  “Do you need some water?”

“No.  I got used to the taste years ago.”  Maedhros settled back down into the nest of blankets.  “Thank you. For all of the things tonight.”

Fingon kissed Maedhros on the cheek and then retreated to the corner chair.  It seemed that at least an hour passed with Fingon attempting to find a comfortable position for sleeping in the chair.  He had counted three different types of owls and the calls of at least a dozen bats. Now he heard a songbird, and he groaned softly at the thought of another day filled with excitement and first meetings and so much walking.

“I have been unable to fall asleep as well,” said a voice softly.  “However, I know not to offer you any valerian.”

Fingon opened his eyes to see Maedhros looking back at him.  “I could sing you a lullaby.”

“You could, but then I would stay awake to listen to you sweet voice.  I loved hearing your music the other night,” said Maedhros. “I do hope you will sing for me again.”

“Would it help if I were sharing the bed with you?” he asked in a low voice, not meaning at all to have been arousing, but the meaning of the words went straight to his groin and he sucked air in through his nose.

Maedhros lifted the edge of the blanket in answer, and Fingon crawled in, recalling now that Maedhros had mentioned being naked.

“Did you want me to--”

“Let me help you.”  Maedhros deftly untied the sash of the robe while keeping both eyes focused upon Fingon.  A moment later, the fabric of the robe was pushed off both of Fingon’s shoulders by Maedhros, who chastely kissed a portion of skin where milky and dusky tones met.  Fingon shivered, and so Maedhros did it again. “You smell good,” murmured Maedhros.

“So do you.”  

Hands, legs, lips, and tongues caressed and discovered over the next few minutes.  As Fingon felt a throbbing between his legs, he placed his hands on Maedhros’ shoulders and said, “We should stop.”

“Oh.”  Maedhros slid away.  “Sure.”

Fingon pushed his braid away from his face.  “There is...very little chance I would...stop if...we keep...I want to...but…”

“Do you...do you want to see?”

The fear and uncertainty that Fingon saw in Maedhros’ eyes made him want to pull Maedhros into an embrace.  Instead, he traced a finger along the side of Maedhros neck and nodded, chest heaving, wondering in the back of his mind if the door to the suite was locked.

Maedhros tugged the blankets off of both of them, pushing them off to the other side of the bed.  There was still a faint glow from the fireplace in the room, and while Fingon was momentarily worried about the obvious erection he had, he also realized that Maedhros was looking straight up at the ceiling and trembling.

Fingon wrapped a hand around Maedhros’ fingers and stroked his other hand across Maedhros’ cheek.  “No matter what you look like, you are beautiful to me.” 

With a twist of the wrist, Maedhros took hold of Fingon’s hand and began to guide him along bare flesh.  From the shoulder, there was a slight curve. Small, but feminine breasts, and Maedhros offered as explanation: “I have someone help me wrap my upper body with cloth tightly in the morning so they do not show.”

“Does it hurt?” asked Fingon as he felt along a muscled torso that seemed to have contours like that of his own form.

“All the time.”  Maedhros stopped at the hip and made eye contact.  “I cried so much when they happened because it meant I could not go swimming with my brothers anymore.”

“Why could you not--oh.  Sure.” Fingon shook his head.  “Maybe we can figure out a solution to that.”  He looked down to see what the other differences might be between them, and noted that instead of a defined penis, there was a nub, a little longer than half the length of his thumb, and it did not look completely developed.  Fingon could also see in the shadows that there was an opening, but it looked smaller than he expected from the single picture he had seen in a reference book many years ago, and that it also looked to intersect with the base of the penis.  “May I--”

“Yes.  Do--do whatever you--”

“Shh.  I worry you are giving me all power over you because you have never had someone respect you the way someone should before, and I want to be sure it is what you want.”  Fingon nuzzled Maedhros’ throat. “May I just say that I have never encountered someone as brave as you. Thank you for trusting me.” Fingon reached over and took hold of the blanket so that he could pull it over both of them.  

Comfortably entwined in each other’s arms, Fingon stifled a yawn.  Maedhros pulled another blanket over them. “I wish we had met sooner.”

“Well, now that we have, we have uncountable years ahead of us,” said Fingon.  “I hope my schedule is light tomorrow so that we can spend time together. I still have so much Tengwar to learn, and now you have all sorts of motivation for me.”

Maedhros smiled.  “All I have on my schedule is to choose new fabric for the curtains in the other room.  Tyelkormo’s dog chewed on them a week ago and they are punctured and ragged along the bottom.  Perhaps, if there is time, you could help me--then, whenever I see them, I will think of you.”

Fingon bestowed a final kiss upon Maedhros’ lips.  “Perfect,” he whispered before they fell asleep.


	8. The Chaperone (Chapter 7)

“I will be staying in my rooms today.  Will you come back to visit me when you have finished your list of tasks?” asked Maedhros.  Breakfast had been ordered very early under the pretense that Maedhros was very hungry, and Fingon kept himself hidden in the bedroom when the servants arrived with it.  There was more than enough for both of them, and Fingon washed up at the basin before swapping the robe from the night before with the clothing he had entered with. The change in the color of light was only just harkening a new day, and farewells were being said. 

“Of course I will,” Fingon promised.  “Tonight and every night I am able.”

This brought a smile to Maedhros’ face, and the pair kissed again, less hungrily than the night before, but with a growing passion that had yet to be sated.  “I look forward to your return.”

“And I look forward to seeing you once again.”  Fingon took hold of Maedhros’ hand, kissed the back of it, and took his leave, lest he be seen by someone in a hallway due to be bustling in short order.

He made it back to his rooms without incident, and quickly made himself presentable with fresh clothes and rebraided hair.  No one knocked on the door during his preparations, and yet it was later than he had been allowed to sleep the last two days.  Fingon took the time to arrange some things in the room that he had left in a crate when he had arrived--a few books (in Sarati), a set of tools for carving wood, his harp, a clay figure of a wolf that Aredhel had made for him years ago, and so on.  Still, no one summoned him, and finally, when he believed it impolite not to seek out a place to pretend to break his fast (for he was not even that hungry when he and Maedhros had eaten, on account of giddiness), Fingon left the room to go to the main dining hall, where he knew from the tour that anyone was welcome at any time of day to enter for respite or a meal.

He never made it to the hall.

“Cousin!”

“Cousin! Wait...brother?”

“Meh.”

Fingon turned to see the Ambarussa.  Today, they were dressed in matching outfits that shimmered from indigo to violet depending on their movements.  “Good morning,” he greeted them, and they only stopped when they were almost uncomfortably close. “I was about to go to the dining hall.  Would you care to join me?”

“The dining hall--you must have had a tour,” guessed one of them, for Fingon could certainly not tell them apart.  “I bet we could quiz him on where things are!”

“Oh, that would be fun!” The other twin clasped his hands behind his back.  “Where is the root cellar located?” 

“In the basement.  Southeast corner,” specified Fingon.

“And what floor is the sacristy located on?” asked the other twin, mirroring his brother on the other side of Fingon.

“The third floor,” Fingon said carefully. The way he was being stared at was making him nervous.

“And what about...Maedhros’ room?” 

Fingon swallowed hard.

“Yes, what about Maedhros’ room?”

The twins had each flanked Fingon, and now, an arm draped heavily over one of Fingon’s shoulders, and then the other.  “Perhaps we could continue this conversation in the dining hall. Surely, you must be hungry as well.”

“Are you hungry, brother?” one asked the other.

“Hungry for answers.  Maybe we should go somewhere a little cozier than this drafty corridor to talk.”

“The calefactory?”

“The calefactory is lovely this time of day.”

Before Fingon could design another reason by which they should continue to the dining hall instead, each of the brothers had slipped an arm through his, and were walking briskly with him between them.  He had the options of either keeping up or being dragged, and chose the former. No more was said until they reached an open doorway, which closed almost instantly behind them once they were in the large chamber.

Fingon looked around.  The first thing he saw were the large fires burning throughout the room, which boosted the temperature more than a few degrees.  When he looked back at the closed door, he saw that it had been Caranthir who closed the door, for he was now locking it from the inside.  He also saw that the other brothers were there, with the exception of Maedhros.

Of all of the brothers, it was surprisingly Maglor who looked the most severe.  The flicker of firelight played over his features, and he stood at the center of the brothers, arms crossed over his chest.  “What took the two of you so long?” demanded Celegorm, who was the most relaxed. He was sitting on a stack of firewood, fanning his face with his hand.

“We had to find him first,” one of the twins said. 

“All you had to do was stand outside of his room,” scolded Curufin.  “One of you outside his room, one of you outside of Russa’s room.”

“We got distracted,” spat out the other twin.  “Besides, how do you expect us to see him in most places?  He is like a shadow. Shadow-elf.”

“The dark ghost,” added the other twin.

“You stop that right now,” ground out Curufin angrily.  He had a finger pointed in the direction of the youngest brothers.  “I do not want to hear words like that coming from your mouths ever again.  I do not want to hear it about your cousin, or your uncle, or anyone else, related or not, who looks different than you.  You have no idea what they go through on a daily basis. You have no right to make it any harder on him. I am raising a young child right now, and you have nieces as well, who are going to hear what you say and think that it is condoned, and I will not listen to it from you.”

“I told you you should have let me take care of it,” grumbled Celegorm.  

“There is one of you and two of them,” Caranthir reasoned.

“And who among us is the hunter?”

“Stop.”

All of the brothers shut their mouths and turned their attention to Maglor.  “Sorry,” offered Celegorm, and Maglor nodded.

“Uh...I get the feeling...you know where I was last night,” Fingon finally said.

“Well, I did leave you there, and you never left,” Curufin stated plainly.

Maglor stepped forward as he held a hand up at Curufin.  His eyes were boring into Fingon and he said, “We will have the answer from your lips.  What is you intention with Maedhros?”

Fingon cleared his throat.  “Ah...I…”

“I think it needs to be addressed in simpler form,” interrupted Celegorm.  He looked straight at Fingon and asked, “Did either of you fuck the other last night?”

“N-no,” stuttered Fingon.

“Tyel--”

“Do either of you intend to fuck the other in the future?”

“Tyelkormo!” roared Maglor.  

The two eldest cast their gazes upon each other.  After several moments of silence, Celegorm looked to the floor.  “Sorry.”

Curufin patted Celegorm’s shoulder.  “It was effective,” he whispered as Maglor approached Fingon.

Fingon did his best to appear humble without fear and strong without threat.  “I believe that Maedhros and I have discovered a common kinship,” Fingon replied.

Maglor traveled slowly, and stopped a breath away from Fingon.  It caused Fingon to need to look up to make eye contact. “What did Russa tell you?” demanded Maglor.

“About…”

Curufin peeked over Maglor’s shoulder.  “You were in there for hours. You either know exactly what Makala is asking, or you do not.”

Fingon took a breath.  “I saw what Maitimo looks like.”  There was a pause. “I saw everything.”

“And?” pressed Maglor.

The other brothers, with the exception of Celegorm, were surrounding Fingon now.  “And…” Fingon trembled a little and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

At the doorway, Celegorm groaned and hopped down from his perch.  “Give him some air,” Celegorm insisted. He came around to stand beside Fingon and put an arm around his shoulder.  Unlike the feeling he had just before the twins brought him here, Fingon felt a little relief at what seemed to be an ally.  “Did anyone talk to Russa yet today?”

“I wanted to have this discussion first,” Maglor said sternly.  “I will speak with Russa later.”

“Mmm...this seems like it would greatly concern Russa,” Celegorm said.  “Findekáno has been here, what, three days? We are treating him like a prisoner being interrogated.  You remember what father said--treat him as a brother.”

“If that is the case, what was he doing in Russa’s room, and why did he see what Russa looks like?” pressed Caranthir.  Caranthir gave Curufin an accusing look.

“Russa wanted to keep talking to him.  It was late and I came to take Russa to bed,” explained Curufin.

“We should have been alerted of this last night.”  Caranthir looked back to Maglor. “Did you know about this before this morning?”

“Yes; Curufinwë told me last night.  I did not think it merited waking everyone else at that time.”  Maglor calmly looked to the nearest of the twins. “Do you know if Russa is still abed?”

“Probably.  You want me to go get Russa?”

“No.  Russa already said that neither of you two are to transport until you stop making a game of it.”  Maglor looked at Curufin and Caranthir. “Would one of you please--”

“I can go,” offered Caranthir.  He walked back to the door and unlocked it.  “Oh.” He opened the door wider and held out an arm, but it was shoved away, so he held the door as the sound of shuffling with a heavy tap at a regular interval came from that side of the room.  Fingon could not see what was happening, but he had a pretty good idea from the discussion he could hear.

“Just what is going on here?”

“Makalaure summoned us.”

“That is not what.”

“We were about to retrieve you.”

“So I am some pet now to be retrieved?”

“No!  We--are you sure you do not want assistance?”

“I am fine.”

“You are struggling, brother.”

“Carnistir, kindly leave me alone.”

Now Fingon was able to see Maedhros, leaning heavily upon a staff.  Maedhros was draped in several layers of fabric, from loose clothing to robes, and gasped for air.  Fingon badly wanted to go to Maedhros, but still stood in a position of being blocked by most of the other brothers, especially now as Caranthir rejoined the group.

“Makala, I want an explanation,” Maedhros demanded once given enough time to recover.

“I was not about to have a repeat of the last four times,” Maglor said with conviction.  “You can be mad at me, but the reality of the situation is that I care greatly about you, and we know next to nothing about our cousins.  I was not about to see him use you, abuse you, or break your heart.”

Maedhros looked around at the others who were there.  A nod at the twins, and then, “You two, leave.”

“What?”

“Why us?”

“Because you are still children, technically, and I will not have these discussions with you in the room.”

The Ambarussa were not happy, but they did not disobey.  In fact, they seemed happy enough to be able to leave the heat of the room.  Once they were gone, Curufin locked the door again, and returned to stand with the others.

Once those in the room numbered six, Maedhros accepted help from Caranthir, who had stayed closer to Maedhros just in case.  “Makala, while I appreciate the concern, I can tell you that Findekáno has been the best gentleman.”

“I am not sure how anyone could be a gentleman if they can claim to have seen your full body,” disputed Maglor.

“Because I showed him.  You are concerned that what happened in the past does not happen again.  No one is more worried about that than I am. I was not about to begin another relationship without completely honesty on that part.  In the past, I became close to others, and then revealed myself to them, and they left. At least, if he had left, it would not have mattered.  But he stayed with me last night, and that is what matters the most,” Maedhros said.

Maglor’s jaw twitched.  His gaze stayed on Fingon, but his words were addressed to Maedhros.  “And did he touch you?”

“Without hesitation and in the kindest ways,” replied Maedhros in a soft tone.  “In every way I wanted him to touch me, and yet, as I said, he remains a gentleman.”

Maglor grunted. 

Maedhros stumbled and struggled to take a few steps closer.  “He brushed my hair, tucked me in, and told me he thinks he is falling in love with me.”

“So he only thinks maybe.  Convenient,” Maglor replied.

“Oh, goodness, little mother, if he had actually said he loved Russa, you would debate it to be false.  He has been here but three days,” Celegorm reminded them. He removed his arm from Fingon’s shoulder and pulled his own hair back to knot it up on his head, for the ends were getting drenched with sweat from being in the heated room as long as they had been.  “I would debate it if either of them said they loved the other so soon. So they maybe think they might like to consider a partnership. Give them a chance for it.”

Maglor now turned to Maedhros.  “What you did was so improper. You know that you should have a chaperone.  You know that not everyone had a chance to interview him yet. You know that--”

“Forget about the damned interviews.  The Ambarussa forfeited that when they decided to play games with him.  Ultimately, this was grandfather’s idea, remember?” prodded Maedhros.

“Does he know that?” Maglor pressed.

Maedhros’ brow furrowed.  “He does now,” Caranthir said.  

Curufin rubbed the back of his neck.  “Grandfather thought that the two of you might have good compatibility, but he also thought it would be a benefit to the family as a whole.  While there are mixed feelings on cousin marriages, in this case, no one expects a dispute, should you mutually decide to proceed.”

With a groan, Maglor rubbed his face with his hands.  “We agreed not to bring that up!”

“Look, this is all turning into a fiasco as it is,” said Celegorm.  “Makala, you are worried about Russa. Russa just told you not to worry.  You want protocol followed, and Russa told you--and I agree--that the twins lost their opportunity.  All of the rest of us told father we had no reservations with progress.”

“But the chaperone,” Maglor stated.  “There should be a chaperone.”

“Then chaperone them, Makala!” suggested Celegorm.

Maglor let up slightly, looking away.  “You know I have obligations. And a wife.  And two children. And a third on the way.”

“Then just let it go.  Trust them,” Celegorm said.

“What if Tyelkormo chaperones,” Curufin said.  “He was my chaperone before I married.”

“That makes sense because you are younger,” explained Maglor.  “Tyelkormo is quite a bit younger than Russa.”

“But he is not that far away in age from Findekáno,” spoke up Maedhros.  

“So?” asked Maglor.

“So, what if he is Findekáno’s chaperone.  Then, he would be with me whenever I am with Findekáno, and he and Findekáno have many similar interests.  It seems reasonable,” said Maedhros.

“I can accept that,” said Maglor slowly.  “But what about your upcoming wedding?”

Celegorm scratched at his nose.  “Right. We know how well those have been in the past.”

“I do not think this one is going to call it off like the others,” opined Caranthir.  “What will you do then?”

“Consider this a temporary post, then,” suggested Celegorm.  “I shall serve until such time as husbandly duties require I be elsewhere.  Or not. Do we have your approval, little mother?”

Maglor brought out a handkerchief to wipe his brow, but it, too, was already damp.  “If father approves, then you have my approval.”

“Consider it a courtesy, then, because father already told me a chaperone was not required,” said Maedhros.  

“When did you ask father?” asked Caranthir.

“Who do you think told me what the rest of you were up to?”  Maedhros reached out for Fingon, and Fingon hastily made his way through the others to reach Maedhros.  Caranthir transitioned with Fingon so that Fingon was now offering physical support to Maedhros. “He offered to come down here, but I will fight my own battles when I can.”

“This is not a battle,” Maglor argued.

“Then why does it feel as if you were attacking Findekáno?”  Maedhros gave Maglor a pleading look. “Let me make my own mistakes.”

Maglor lifted his hands in compliance. He, Caranthir, and Curufin began to head to the door.

“Makala?”

Maglor turned around.

“I appreciate your concern, Makala.  I truly do.” Maedhros leaned down and nuzzled the top of Fingon’s head.  “Last night my heart was soaring. Does that ease your mind?”

Maglor twisted his handkerchief.  “I want you to be happy.”

“I know.  Thank you.”

There was only a moment of quiet between the three who remained before Celegorm said, “I agree to chaperoning, but please, can we go elsewhere?  This is my least favorite room in forever and everywhere.”

“I cannot make it back up the stairway,” admitted Maedhros.

“I can carry you,” said both Celegorm and Fingon at the same time.  Celegorm motioned a hand to Fingon. “I defer to you. I can get the staff and the door.”

Fingon was not sure what he expected when he lifted Maedhros, except that he somehow thought Maedhros would be heavier.  Closely he guarded his precious cargo as he allowed Celegorm to lead the way out of the chamber and to a cooler part of the estate.  The trio took a rest in an alcove where a breeze blew through the window. “I think we could all use a break,” suggested Celegorm as they took up residence on the benches beneath the window.  “I also think fresh air and open fields are a benefit to all.”

“Are you suggesting a ride, or a hunt, or something else?” inquired Maedhros.

“A ride, a hunt, and a week, at least, at my lodge.  Give you both a chance to breathe and relax and get to know each other.  No hunting party, just the three of us and my dogs,” suggested Celegorm.

“What about your fiancée?” Maedhros asked.

Celegorm shrugged in a casual manner.  “I can leave her a note.”

“She might come looking for us.”

“I will not tell her where I went.”

“She will know.”

Celegorm shrugged again.  “It still gives us a few days, I think.  What say you?”

“We must be swift about it,” Maedhros said. 

“Pack light; tell no one.  I will leave a note with father to be delivered only if...what is her name again?”

“You should not make jokes at her expense,” warned Maedhros.

“I know.  She seems like such a nice girl.”  Celegorm looked to Fingon. “I will explain at the lodge.  You may as well know. Can you be packed in twenty minutes?  I can fetch things from Maedhros’ room. I need nothing; I keep supplies enough stocked at the lodge for myself.”

After an overwhelming start to the day, Fingon agreed without giving the entire situation much thought.  Within the hour, he, Maedhros, and Celegorm departed to the world outside the walls, riding covertly cloaked out a side passage that allowed them to reach the woods swiftly, and to disappear from sight before Fingon had time to fully reflect upon their choices.


End file.
